Sunday, August 20, 2006
Wounded to the point of not being heard, diminishing into the horizon.
The house was built on stilts so the sea could wash under it. We could be carried away in our Ophelial delusions should the need arise.
Consider the north-easter blowing through the open bus window, cool and singular on the seat beside you. Consider the foam wash blown over dunes, the lone figure and his dog in the distance. The body tumbling in the shorebreak, that came ashore as a great turtle split in half.
Consider pipers hunkering through December.
This passed for home, this was pivotal, this was cold sand blown over an adolesence.