david hadbawnik





I’ve got this ocean in my hand

she says to the ocean, what

should I do with it?

None of it makes any sense

the music’s clocks chiming

man’s body hunched over

my shoulder writing me

into this poem, writing me

this poem, ocean leaping

to wash over me, undertow

making lines on my soft

wet skin, what

should I name it?

And the cold thing stares back.










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