Poem: Lighthouse Park

 

The bus ride finished

a mile from the shore

leaving a trek

through the muddy clay

of rain-spattered early spring,

the swarming midges of late July,

or the leafy carpet of middle fall,

to the beach at the end of the world.

 

Sitting on a sea-driven log,

a carcass

of the far northern woods,

my lover and I cleared our throats

with lemonade and beer,

removing the stings of another week,

populating our thoughts with dreams

far removed from the drab

everyday.

 

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