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Oyster Bed

Looking out on salt flats,

reedy tresses, calcite wind.

The oysters bury, wait,

ransack mud to make a bed.

A place to grip, to hook

one’s body to. The sun shifts

your face into light, another side

of you in sharp relief.

Clamshells tumble on the shore,

tipping over dark sand.

Little moons in rapid orbit.

You toss one into the water,

and subtle tides punch it back

to the beach. No words between us,

just bones, skin, and changing winds

blowing us to the same places,

light in all the corners when we return.

Posted 08/14/17
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