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Poem: Vacation 

I am preparing for vacation
making a sort-of list, and
I only wrote things, just things,

but they say we can’t sense time, only
its momentum. Where is the tug
of the sea against my salted legs
in this litany of goods? Could I,
should I tally the stars at night, after
the steaks, wine, and rusted beach gear?
Should we mention the blood-drunk mosquitoes,
that hiss that leaves the air at dusk,
all the old old songs sung way way too loud?

Every trip is a retreat, both ways.
Heading out, we back up from a world
far too close to list.
We return, looking away, while
the mirror sea ebbs out to an eeling edge,
far too far to see.
  • A poem by Stowe Boyd.


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