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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
Written in Dublin, September 2018

Submitted: September 30, 2018

A A A | A A A

Submitted: September 30, 2018





There are grooves in the sand,

Rivulets in the land which the

Sea washes so diligently, all

The acutely-formed miniatures


At the mercy of cratering feet, of

Lashing cleanses from the tide.


For all these little tragedies, I couldn’t

Bring myself to leave this place so

Taut, glittering with would-be

Raspberries and


Haunted by the one-eyed murmurs

Of immortality along the waters.


Even when the wind snatches away

The tune of my song, mine, so that

I can’t hear my own voice.

Across these brambles the wind is

Merely obsessive and harmless, so

I will sing my tremor anyhow.


For this skinny land

Offers four or five good stone benches,

Complete with an old man, well-dressed but

Craggy for the sins of his pleasure.


He sits on the one side,

I on the other, friends for sake

Of the view included with

Every bench.

© Copyright 2019 Kevin LaTorre. All rights reserved.

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