words only reach so far

as the shore at low-tide,

The shape of your childhood

On the collection of memory, 

Harbors docking the innocent wailing, 

Dialed phone on mermaid seashells, 

Only as far the bookmarked novel, 

Pinched between the shelves

The echo chamber with a door;

The kitchen with Tuscan olives

And dark chlorinated pools

with no drain or stopper

Just the rich milkiness of fallen stars, 

Rain like petals on flamingo floaties, 

Only as far as the cul-de-sac turn

shears stained green on burning bush, 

Streaked on the heavy hollow of radio whisper

TV facade like mirages in time

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