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x̌ʷə́lč THE WATER WE KNOW

Seasonal pinnipeds
we hitch toward the familiarity
of the sound

collecting things:
sanded glass, bone homes

walk barefoot over
broken shells and limpets
the sting of flotsam
in each summer step

a cold irony,
jumping in and then out

Surrounded by water we don’t swim here.

x̌ʷə́lč THE WATER WE KNOW

Seasonal pinnipeds
we hitch toward the familiarity
of the sound

collecting things:
sanded glass, bone homes

walk barefoot over
broken shells and limpets
the sting of flotsam
in each summer step

a cold irony,
jumping in and then out

Surrounded by water we don’t swim here.

Catherine Reynolds  46, Seattle

 
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