At the point where two skies have gathered,
past where my father had furthest walked,
those who ride the white caps have come
to make me white.
To their left, brass stitches
gouge the beach where they have passed.
To the right, the smallest of tea cups
are left behind for the little ones
to be mesmerized.
I wish I were on the cliff above the sand,
where I could watch in wonder
as they climb ashore.
To no avail,
I cannot be hidden
and must be responsive
to their bleeding eyes.
Their cloth, a forest green and golden seal,
wraps about where I stand defeated.
My legs are free but my mind is already in
Europe. |
Submission Name: Standing on the Brink
