i try not to
get my hopes up
too often
it’s never as good
as i convince myself
it will be

but i let myself
believe in this one
in the back of my mind
the beach

a week off work
ocean waves
hot sand
fresh fish
his birthday
where reality can’t find me

in 2019 it seemed like
a great plan
enter 2020
with it’s 99
problems but
a beach ain’t one

and so now another
year will go by
and i won’t get a chance
to leave this
humid lakelocked town
that will soon cool down
with drizzling rains and
thick white snow

people have lost
their jobs
their lives
and their sanity

and i’m doing
all right
untouched by
disaster and
richer from
overtime

so i should be
grateful
but i’m mostly just
over it

the long hours and
late nights and
going going going
busy bee

but i guess no
beaches for
*******
like me

I'm stuck for eternity,
for infinity.
Following this illusion,
this intention.
Chasing the tide,
and following the current.
Hoping it will lead me back to you.

the summers haven’t been the same
since you left,

late at night
i drive to the beach
and listen to the waves
because in the sounds of
them crashing into each other
i can hear you call my name

i grip the sand
because through the grains
i can still feel your hand,
letting go of the sand

i place a seashell
beneath your star
so that way you can
enjoy this moment
with me

The truth about the world is hidden.
Records about it (because they were)
are locked in the iron mountain by a man.

Iron protects well against persistence.

For us remained only Pythagoras,
Plato,
Daedalus.

But we talk about Icarus most often
because defiantness and falling down
are exemplary.

You can hear it (only to hear)
in a swallow's flight when cuts an air,
when puts reality like ears of grain.

The truth is in the rustle of insects,
seasons of the year,
passing,

you can see it
in circles on the water
and honeycombs,

in trees it goes on without moving
just like in rocks,

but in the spoon of tar is the most of it.

The truth is also in the emptiness of the beach:
the sound of waves often talks about it
whenever touch of dunes on the back
tickles with it.

Then you can smile
and not even know
that the body felt the story.

For us it is just a movement of the grass
on the wind.

The short story
about the truth

it was.