An unrelenting beast serene, the sea
laps land into sand–and man’s short trail
of broken glass into translucent jewels–
yet neither heart nor compassion
ride upon her constant undulations
cresting white before they crash
within the foamy broth of time, stirring all
into another fresh instant. It should be
she, when we pray for storms, or for
relief from lustful passion. I do not care
to know her well, embraced inland
at a distance, my words come carefully.
drycrikjournal 
You are wise . . .
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