Flipping over endless empty pages
full of restless night
misreading by the light
of the falling moon
I am shaking sand from my skirts
in a sepia photograph
pressed 20 pages into a book
that I am not so sure I ever want to read again
Keeping my place
is a softly burnt branch of driftwood
thrust vertical in the dunes
marking where I left off
before I started to dream...
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