From Ungovernable Press

Mariehamn

Your ukulele. Just because I could not play.
By sleight of wave our names are forever erased
from the sand. By sleight of hand
your card is pulled, melts, seamless,
and our dainty pastel admittance seizes
the moment of gentle tumult to burrow maybe
beyond the discard pile: beyond my boggled-sight?
Beyond my fire-fingered grasp?
For my love is a painted hermit crab,
yours for a good cry…

The sea, the sea will provide.
This evening,
there will be intrigue
while our clothes tumble dry.

© Brooklyn Copeland 2009