Mined

A Poem

This beach is not intrisically elusive. The damage long done, by a cartographer who’d forgotten to replace their glasses. Deep lines of ink and colour become this figure of attempting fate.

Blown to the sound of whispers, thinking to sap out the different wires, pop off the metal cap.

Watching my steps has never helped me before, head down to the series of wayward feet, numb from the soles up. Aware, vaguely, of ephemeral pressures and trying to stroll naturally to the place I let go.

I think what they’d find, if the archaeologists ever find this place, an argument gone blind. A hole with nothing in it, anymore.

J.D. Harms 2020