Supposing Supposing there was nothing left on your island Just the sea curling around the edges And making footprints that waves make Upon wet sand. Supposing you went home and found no one there Except the wet July sky Holding out a bouquet of stars And the air touched your face with rain. Supposing there was no one home no where No familiar tracks to greet you With the memory of a footprint in the sand Washed up by the sea, still wet With the track of stars on a fine rain night. Supposing you sat and became a poem by the sea A garland of weeds growing From a mythical tail Counting the ripples and coins From forgotten wrecks And tugging at the ebb of the stars? All alone, older than July and its rain, Supposing there was no one there to read?
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