All this sand, drifting
like maidens waiting for the Nile to sweep them
in exchange for vows unmade
this is the expense of beauty
from the hill, looking down toward the seaside
the sand keeps working with the wind
making a new hail with its own hands
gripping the thighs, the feet, the cars
no caresses for those of us who sleep
standing because we fear rain on the seaside
as if one source of water was not enough
to let us go, or brag by the nearest branch
floating, our hands,
it is hearty this downpour
over way of more water
less sand, nothing keeps you floating
against your anger,
this is why rain is never pretty on the sea-side
moody mother, no one can tell your time
other than the tides taking out those who live on the sea-side.
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