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 also donate some of your hard-earned dollars down below—that’s money to me, for free!


Gabriel Muoio


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