Wet cool cement in the littoral zone
holds our signature like a first impression.
Tracks circle tracks; they become lost in a barefoot frenzy.
The February tide paints over the sand
wide cold brush-strokes
and the tracks run away
erased again.
The tracks run away
towards the glacial rocks settled
at the bottom of a steep bluff.
At the bottom of the bluff,
a heavy mist meets our feet.
The fog covers all imperfections
and allows the water to run clear
over our sandy feet.
It's time for a clean slate.
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