THE LAUGHING BONE‎ > ‎WORD‎ > ‎POETRY‎ > ‎

Mssg in a Bottle by B. Jones



The nature of things is in the habit of concealing itself.
- Pascal



And we washed our bones in the sea.
And we dreamed of our homelands.
And we imagined rafts and boats.


But there was no wood.
And there were not yet enough bones.
But there was time.


Driftwood, like memories,
Collected after storms,
Wave polished and twisted trees.


That endless beach,
And the dunes of sand.
Empty shells moaning in the wind.


God, to have you again in my embrace,
To know your flesh surrounding me again
Like a ghost now....


It was in your upward gaze
The last time we-
Then, the fading shore.


The ship and the storm,
And the slow dawn of desolation
And this haunted memory:


Posts of an ancient pier
Rising out of the sea mist
At low tide.


On our stomachs, whispering
Tales of drifting wood:
Children on the pier


Dreaming of water.
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