The Tide, Part IV

We permitted the misery and the
dance that ensued—the dry whale’s
bones that erupted from the sand, the
sea, the mystic, overbearing overture
that seemed to simultaneously be
about the end of things, and us in the
centre, regretting death’s awesome
power to send one back in time, for
lonely did the discord make us, and
masters of our islands alone. Like
this we spent some of our eternity,
weaving baskets made of emery,
fishing splinters from our sunburnt
flesh, laying eyes on all the dying
cosmos as it was back then, interred
in the widow’s water clock, black as
wet rats and glistening.

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can read it here for free, or get it for your e-reader on iBooks, Amazon or Kobo. Or you can just say you read the book, and donate five bucks down below. Go on.

Gabriel Muoio


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