What if we are
all
standing
at
a slant
like
a line
of
skinny pines
caught
in the violent
breath
of a hurricane,
the
very horizon
cutting
our eyes
at
an angle,
stitching
itself
into
the pupil,
the
entire world
askew
and play it
on
the fly?
One
must wait
for
the foaming
rabid
dog of surf
to
subside.
Then we may
stand
upright,
the
plumb restored
to
the vertical,
and
walk along
the
shoreline,
our
feet flirting
with
kinder surf,
foreplay
for making
love
to the most
mysterious
deep
which
seduces us into
its
feminine heart,
neither
scalene nor
isosceles but
circumscribed
by fluid
love.
~William Hammett
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