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The end of street sea sings to small, curled ear and I know now that I can rest.

The fisted, hard sounds of my jerked weeping will soon enough wane, leaving only a void.

The commotion has ceased, for now - at least. Still, I do not sleep.

I only dream, dream, and dream: such things you would not believe.

What fool would waste the still dark, the first light,

the sight of dawn's fog as it lifts from this Atlantic ,

rolling in with its gulls and terns, each of them speaking

their story from the nearest high-peaked roof.

I savor the blue-blackness of the moment.

Dark as an Indian sapphire, and in it

I lie awake, though not quite, more trance-induced.

Why perhaps I've even found some peace!

Palms face up, I am so blank or is it calm?

Neither really matters.

Simple contentment is vastly over-rated: the heart is not satisfied with only this.

It lacks importance when each day is a fight for some half- survival,

I live to the next, knowing exactly what we’ll say: our stupid litany.

Now, now, now...

The time is not quite right.

Not yet. For today -

I will curl in on myself like a fiddle-head fern and rest by the sea-window,

and there I will breathe in as if you were here, as my room fills with the scent of fog and the sea,

echoes with the sounds of pebbled waves that shake like a bag of old bones that drag against the shoreline -

- our shared eastern seaboard.

Tomorrow I’ll lay them out.

Tomorrow, perhaps I’ll divine our future.

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