54

I feel the currents roaming in my head;

I'm a good person, but the waves keep on
crashing against the walls, crashing instead
of lapping or flooding through to the dawn:
Which is fine, I guess – I do like the sound
of crashing waves, of passing days like nights
in the wintry vacuum of eyes so round
and streets starked by the pallor of white lights:
A golden blankness with a thousand bulbs –
these streets have it – and I'm walking alone,
loving the gray ground as it just dissolves
into the ether of distance unknown:
The grainy mist reminds me of the sea;
I can feel its echo inside of me.
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