82 Clinton St

Written: 2024

I hear the shore in my mind’s eye,
eroding every year-
when I was young, we were afraid
it was the water that would
disappear.
Who could have guessed that
even the inland seas
would rise-
tide to the sky,
passing me by as I search
for my seat of stone,
slowly slipping away
to be reclaimed by the earth,
and how much is a memory worth?

Bare feet watch for mulberries
only to burn in the
summer silica

Blue lips beg a mother’s warning.