Five Poems

The Waves

My child grows beyond
his tipped turrets of sodden sand.

He recreates pure
impatient forms from seawater.

The castles dry in no time;
he, unaware of the lifting foam.

As water strikes his world's edges
it overwhelms small villages.

As language is tsunami.
It carves half-worlds we

live and die in. There this
comparison dries.

Language became a wave, a break,
an intricate flat world in its wake.
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