A girl sitting at a long table.
An empty glass of blackcurrant cordial.
A pair of old glasses with scratched lens.
A dead cat. A bucket of water.
Her hair is long. Her arms are long. Her legs are long.
Her feet are flat.
There are twenty dead whales at the foot of my window. I fill the bucket over and over and over. Run to the ocean. Cry to God. Is God real? And if he is, does he hear the whales? The white paint is peeling. My skin smells of salt and sea. I do not like the smell of dead whales but I like the smell of salty skin. Have you tasted it?
If you float to the top of the summer, you will see the lone wolf at the end of the wharf, drinking a bottle of warm beer. If you walk closer, you might see he is fishing.
EDIT: Just had to say hello to my newest blog follower, Mr Ben Christensen, who when I told him, about age fourteen, that one of my favourite smells is the smell of skin after swimming in the ocean, then told me that was creepy ;)
The summer poem, brilliant!!!!
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