Ripples On a Blank Shore
Everyone loves everyone
loved no one
but the one looking back
on a moonlit shore,
ignominiously,
the sure clarity of introspective
waves hurried away
like muddied thoughts
squealing downhill.
There is no one looking
for anyone on that shore,
moonlit for naught,
smooth sand unbothered
by footsteps or footsteps
following after,
just shadows cast
for the unenthused moon’s
enigmatic arithmetic.
Always we are shadows
scampering, scampering
off to our delicate garden.
We are the dancing dandelions
by the devilish prospect
of profit death delivers, delighted.
At once we make everything a poem.
There is love underneath love.
There is this, an ocean above.
How are we outnumbered
when all alone? And why must
contempt never be shown?
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