We walked on the beach in the hot afternoon sun
As the sea had reached its  high point of receding
With  dead fish puked in disgust from its fat  belly
And a few  brown mollusks, still sleeping in shells.
The sea seemed to say nothing much in metaphor.

The sands torched feet, yet opened a soft wetness
To a mile-long series of footsteps sinking  as prints
Writing our  history for erasing by the next wave.
But still the sea did nothing to suggest metaphors.

A fishing boat in sight was not much of a metaphor 
Nor a ship lazing  in its giant afternoon drowsiness,
That stayed moored to the sky with a fat deep anchor.
Looking for metaphors we were lost in a sea of words.



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