2011-09-12-7:40 a.m. Driftwood If only I could be washed hard Over and over With the ebb and flow Against that rock edge there And feel the jagged end of A rib Pierce a vital organ. Blood would flow freely and Finally Reflect something real. But there is no hard edge Only sand Where I am deposited Salt water taking flesh Molecule by molecule For thousands of years Like a piece of a tree Which has had the misfortune of Falling into the sea and one day will Hold a plexiglass tabletop Allowing one to gawk at the Twisted smoothness And Places where knots used to be.
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