On the beach…

At the foot of the cliffs, a fire

the red ice tumbling flamed

a monastery made of dream

the small scuttling hermits

dig themselves in

like we do

finding a sense of place, in the lulls


all is gold, in golden light

lucky are those who need little

keep walking is what I say to my feet

there will be this bend, then that

one navigates by stars singing courses


It’s these little fires, petite

little inches where you gain ground

at the base of the soaring shelves

someone had a fire last night, the logs

smoke scattered in their char

someone marked a stone

someone else lost a shoe


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