A day spent drinking the salt breath of the sea,
Surprise, as my lengthy word silence is kick started
as we toil over the stations wooden bridge.
A crumb of comfort, if comfort comes in crumbs.
Time may make sense of this, but I doubt it.
A single line can take an hour or more,
then labour on the page as if positioned with little thought.
It should have motion, be animate,
so with that in mind we lift up our skirts and run.
Sliding doors clack and click. Our carriage pulls away
like a weary child, rattling a fence with an errant stick.
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