Penguin on the beach

It’s been sixty days

and yet

happy hour on the rocks,

mouths wet, free flesh


and pounds

and pounds of them.


Seagulls sing – exotic accent

of an antarctic face


I crave

goodness, how I CRAVE

and if I had the guts it’ll be written

on my wrists

and never to be read


Nothing old

under the sun anymore.


Nothing stole,

Nothing red was worn.


On the cold sand

they whistled and clapped

as if it was easy

as if it was nothing:


The unbearable burden

of being alive

and loved.


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