by Jamie Seibel
The shore is an old man
of sand wrinkles
and folds.
A paper crane,
flies north
as I pick up
the bone of a fish,
hoping to replace mine
and swim downstream.
The shore is an old man
of sand wrinkles
and folds.
A paper crane,
flies north
as I pick up
the bone of a fish,
hoping to replace mine
and swim downstream.
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