the rounded rocks
of Fundy beaches
are hardly a welcoming walk
I trip and twist my way along
marking time to the tidal clock
between craggy cliffs
and icicles crashing
the sound of winter rundown ringing
what I’m bringing to the sullen shore
(is the sickness and the cure)
the lonesome things I’m thinking
from missing her more than ever
the girl who always brings wi…

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