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Out on the horizon you can see the waves.
They play with one another as brother and sister
conceived from the same watery womb.
Once at shore they close their eyes and fall
leaving passion and foam behind for the others -
those running in polka-dot suits
blue shovels in hand
knees and toes in mud
running at the waves and their rhythm
their coming and going
going and coming
at their feet beyond their feet
then back again.
Standing knee deep in its clammy calm
with their polka dots and blue shovels
they seem to understand the ocean’s ardent returns
for they themselves are water
because they too feel the pull of the tides -
they too shall be forever caught
between the seduction of the horizon
and a strange devotion to shore.
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