The Tide

cliff’s edge, Christ’s
isthmus, certainty of
sound, white crash, the
turning grey uniting tide,
silicon, shale, mixed
shells, footsteps, the
sound of gulls circling on
the ocean’s whistling air,
and all the creatures,
God’s creatures, and all
the active, living systems,
some high and large,
invisible, and some small;
minute in fact, and
vanishingly small,
receding into eternity, like
rocks into sand, like
waves into waiting ocean,
like words into open
books, like movement,
like electricity, like gull’s
last notes into day.

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can also donate some of your hard-earned dollars down below—that’s money to me, for free!


Gabriel Muoio


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