Adieu, Bay View

Sundays are still Sundays,

no matter the season or elevation.

But under my thick sweater and cotton inlays

I smell like the beach, in a stormy station.


As I walk my legs to an aimless fatigue

Work my brain to its immaterial bone

For the vertical lines of sails, oblique

My festering angst cannot atone.


The splendor I glued to for the hour,

will exist indefinitely, away from my eyes.

I will continue to walk and talk, scour and devour

to carry it past the instant, lest it tomorrow dies.


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