wet gray sand
gobs dropping through fingers
wind slaps goose-pimpled skin
I create footsteps for detectives to follow
as of now no crime
a house on stilts
a lady holding her skirt above the waves
maybe the past can’t be revisited
but ghosts leave fingerprints
some think they are so smart like
those sails far out on the horizon riding the wind
that far free joy so unreal
as feet here walk around the driftwood, seaweed, rock
there’s something in the pit of the stomach
seawater, salt shriveling the human
everything has been decided
tides carry out the past, return only wreckage
where can one hide a body?
where can one hide a heart?
not in the gray sand.
– Dan Cuddy
editors note: No tempting a capricious tide. Keep your crimes to yourself, undone. – mh clay