AT THE EDGE OF A CONTINENT (SURF CITY, LBI)

At the edge of a continent, the cries of gulls, the boom
and hiss of waves and broken shells shattered and strewn
in the tide line.

At the edge of a continent, sea, sea, and more sea
till sky and sea blend their blues and fishermen walk through
sand to meet its watery edge.

At the edge of a continent, a split rail fence leads down wooden steps
to the boundary, a wavery line drawn in the sand by tides both low and high,
night and day, moon and sun, time after time, the line drawn. And redrawn.

At the edge of a continent, we walk
down to a new vision;
the smell of salt, the sea winds blowing behind us
blasting and shaping this new self like the dunes.

At the edge of a continent, I left a love hollowed out by the wind
unable to love in her hollowed form.
She blew like the grains of sand from dune to dune, shape to shape, grass to grass;
never taking form, howling in the sea winds
at the edge of a continent.

Frank Finale

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