Age

We sit on tethered banks

by the parched spring,

cast into too many times.

Beads of silver

lie in the depths

of this cracked clam.

 

We steal –

We render –

 

We draw in the silt.

Fickle veins plume.

Fallow gums rekindle fervency.

 

No more coasts tomorrow.

Only the one eye knowing.

There hangs the straining chord

of stories grown too old.

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