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(Hammill) |
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The wave hits the beach, writing words on the sand; to the academic man, this could be the answer.... |
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In fact, it's no more than a hunch. |
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Still we try to eat it - |
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I think we're all pretty out to lunch. |
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The wave is out of reach, trailing words from the hand only air can understand. |
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Semaphore on the shoreline, waiting for distance to recede, unhappily imperfect when we should be happy just to breathe. |
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But with each bated breath, so present, tense, we want to know, we want it sure, it don't make sense! |
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So I'll do mine and you do yours but let's not trade sand and sea for brick and cement. |
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The wave hits the beach, laps around abandoned clothes, wants to share a joke with those who'll brave the breakers, who'll break bread rather than pray while the definition-maker's lost in the small print of the day. |
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The words are only pictures that the next wave wipes away. |