facing the open sky
the doors are never closed
always waiting for
a homecoming
a widow docks on the nearby shore
slim tentacles sagging from bloodletting
nightly offerings to the roaring seas
who take pleasure in devouring
posterity
and inheritance
the fishermen reap shells on high tides
sometimes grenades-
or uniforms
or a photograph
of sons with crooked teeth
and still the sun shutters
and the waves stutter
until the cocking of guns
clings to aural memory
drowning laughter
of first steps taken
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