There is no wasteland
As pretty as this
Where ships lie in piles
On pale crystal sand

And taper to knees
Of children younger
Than I once was then
In circles of trees.

Where barrels and tons
Mean “snow day!” for us;
How does something big
Turn to only one?

It’s barren and fun
At the same damn time
While washed winds approach
To break off a lung.

When did something small
Become everything-
When it’s not really
That barren at all?


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