25.

The scree on the beach was lost in your breath

The sand on the ink began to dry

And form a world between art and life.

While the wind blew and changed change itself

And the birch hung over the lake, its leaves

Turning on the dark water, you turned

And watched the light on the train flicker

Down the line like memory, the taste

Of wild raspberries tart on your lips.

And the sun is set deep in your mind,

The voices of strangers in the wood, this place

Where I cannot return for fear of ruin.

In time the land is paved and broken

And the beach bleeds an ink like oil.