low tide

bearing new gifts

an offering of the moment

to gratify

the hidden moon

naked virgins ripe

lie helpless

before the sterness of the sun

breath held anxiety

follow lengthened shadows

drawn across soft bellies

a wake of chill trails

no comfort against

the heated envelope

parboiling the spirit

into invisible steam

soon the long sleep

by now a wish

disturbed by the sound

of the rising tide

it's not too late

it's not too late

is it?

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