by Douglas Gilbert

The sea said
you’ve been in such a hard surf
swam around jetties
scraped hope on barnacles
could only tread water and wait for him

I don’t know how you
rock-a-bided your time so well coping
stood on interjected pleasantness
at the crest of the wave,
rode the curl
ate the sands, but
didn’t wipe out

You have returned him
but there are no refunds
when guilt is bought

What remains is
scotch siting on the rocks,
big ones, eroding ones
cubes melting away, but
sand dimples bid you
not sit for this in the rain

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