On a windblustered day in a landlocked clime
we walked, the dog and I
the beach of the rainwashed mind,
her smell-prance a dance of anticipation
unquenchable, my drag-walk the sum
of slow disintegration.
Dry air faked the sigh that couples with ocean,
fish-fluid, flying fluent and fulgent
with forgotten emotion.
The flotsam thrown up there was viscid and dark
but in a floating smoked bottle
I found a mark
a notation neither flesh nor sublime
no lovenote, just the tedious plea
to make something mine:
If only I could know
what I only see receding.
Knowledge is mean
as alcohol, burning what it cleans
killing what needs to die,
bitter as aloe tasting black,
soothing on charred hide,
but knowing is the thing we lack
most when we are needing,
only gotten after bleeding.
I looked to the signing to see who divined
this notification pricked out in prime
saw my own name, the only thing mine.
Posted for real toads
Ellas has asked us to write a poem about "saving one's soul. A life lesson, a view of your journey..." or a message that might be found in a bottle.
Image: Miranda, by John William Waterhouse, 1875
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