Loose white sand
collects
in dark hollows
of seashells.
Burned sky
inks her eyes,
changing hazel
to pale green.
Isn't the dune heath
alive tonight?
A fever of heather
and yellow gorse.
Twilight dims:
its growing density
casts darkness
across her body.
Oh to escape
old drudgeries,
our bones by the sea
with bottles of rum.
Our braille skin
peels to ash
and drifts into
sun and undertow.
September's
dusk horizon
never ends.
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