And still the waves
slip ashore,
singing their
conspiratorial whispers
between grains of sand.
The wind slides in
from the deep,
empty places,
haunted and lonely,
cold and clean
like a wet finger around
the spotless rim of a
fine crystal glass.
I’m 68 and might
drop dead at any moment.
I look at a
beautiful woman
and sigh, young again.
I know what I’ll miss.

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