Kate Moss plans her getaway

A Poem by Anon ymous

There is always the sea. The last place
to worship. It is primitive, the future.
It is the altar for heaven.

The sky is awestruck, feels feeble
and helpless, runs through possibilities:

roiling
tumultuous
serene
tempestuous

settles on tranquil.

It is sunlight scattered amongst the leaves.
It is within reach;
limb by limb she begins.

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