Maybe,
like steak,
it needs to marinate.
Maybe,
like soup,
it needs to simmer.
Or, maybe,
it’s like watermelon:
the one food everyone else raves about,
but I can never get into
so I leave it alone.
Maybe,
like steak,
it needs to marinate.
Maybe,
like soup,
it needs to simmer.
Or, maybe,
it’s like watermelon:
the one food everyone else raves about,
but I can never get into
so I leave it alone.
It is September, yet
I can still hear the beach.
The sea moves and swells;
it tumbles to the shore,
dusts itself off,
They deserve to laugh and sit on the floor and coo over babies.
They deserve to talk in a language I don’t understand.
They deserve to look at each other with love.
Sweat gathers everywhere as
I climb the golden pavement.
The known ways, the known faces
are waves in the sound.
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