She ascends from ocean water. As she
arises, she reclaims her loneliness. She bears an autumn altar of breasts as an
offering. She is angular within her dripping roundness. Her gestures complete
her containment. She wears a billboard of secret feelings, pinned to the back
of her silence. Her composure is farmland. She is, as she passes by, mythical
oxen tilling towards dream, a woman, in the rice field of her life. She bears
tug-of-war gravity rope burns, displayed as weight against shape. Her backside
reveals an absence of interior default. She walks on, blending towards
landscape,
diverting strain with sensibility
and alertness. She wears her wounds as faint tattoos. She grasps youthfulness
by her self-delight. The beach towel throws a darker cast, wrapped around her. She
walks on, chauffeured by her own eyes that have been on this ascent from
the ocean before. She surrenders with blossoms of
courage to stares. Her mark
from each new step, is forward. Somewhere is her man, dressed for her arrival.
This set forth, some forty years or so ago. By now, she, having learned her
lines, is balanced in her carriage towards meeting. But they, having never met,
yet, but will. And really, they will have no beginning for them to bother with
at all . . .
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