I'm a pale intruder on an unknown beach, my back to the
water, my feet in the sand.
Finding no recognition as each sign of life invades the
precision of this aging land.
An abandoned flipper in a world of storms.
There's a man on the shoreline with a white parakeet
trying to make his bird go home.
With increasing continuity endless space gazes 'round
the periphery not disheartened, wearing it's most
inexpressible face.
My instinct is double as the waves roll by, but my
vision is halved and the foam in the green as the
insects talk to the blazing sky.
Wax in the ear, stitch in the side, wolves are feast
for the blind, under and over, the why and the
wherefore;
easy to sit back with time, driving discussions like
cranes through the car park setting them all in a line.
All interceding, not yet proceeding misleading doubts
in the mind.
I'm a pale intruder on an unknown beach, my back to the
water, my feet in the sand.
Needing no recognition as each sign of life invades the
precision of this aging land.
