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the card

The silence pounds her ears
as waves break the
passive pattern of sand.
Dispersed in anticipated remembrance
of a dance that ends,
as the tide breathes a hasty retreat.

Waxing, waning, she surveys a cycle
of words so sweet
that vowels spill into
Meaningless phonemes -
Banal, inert and empty as long-awaited deeds ...

Syllables sweetly seduce -
Promises and endearments
All come to naught
And though she fought,
the foam washed her clean.

Hot salt leaves hot pink words
in fuchsia stains -
like Grandma's lips.
The card is closed.



© 2004 Dianne Monnier. All rights reserved.