iron sand (365 pieces – january 6)

will o’ the wisp
i shall call it
the dancing black ghosts of a sand handful tossed
into the air, caught on winds from afar
see how they tumble about with their sisters
together, then drifting, then formless, now gone

sun warmed shadows beneath sun warmed feet
and altogether too hot to handle

how the dunes rise and fall
and rise
and fall again, shuddering sand castles brought to their knees
by pounding feet trailing towels and supposed life
among these bleached leaves
the heart of these small mountains

and the sea
and the cliffs
and the sky
and the ferns
and the estuary
    (a moat to keep the wary out
            / no place for the unsure here)

and the way the sandflies dive and 
try to take our blood
it’s yours, take it
there is iron enough for the both of us
so gritty in my sandwich.


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Basically, I deal in words.

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