but this: as you scratch for purchase
keep headed to the wind; keep faced
for the rogue wave that will take us
over these plains of regret; past
these shoals that write our names,
our age, in sand tossed through with
oil; in cubic miles of floating plastic
buried facing seaward
bearing our children’s names;
bear us beyond to that far glade,
bear us to that undying peace, trailing
our waste like wedding garments.
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