Running on the beach,
flux of a cool Atlantic
teasing ropey anklets
around my sea-happy stems—
encircle, retreat, encircle, retreat.
I'm savoring a rare detachment
when the ball of one foot
comes down on something
not-sand. Alarm pierces flow:
that was someone's address once.
I'm still in motion, burning up
a greasy vacation breakfast,
though the ocean air
has suddenly gained weight.
My thoughts go to the week before,
to a lesson in Google Earth.
Zeroing in on my childhood home,
bloom of relief—still there.
I consider an alternative,
the horror:
that sweet one-story brick number,
bearer of me,
taken out by the rogue paw
of some heaving giant,
carelessly exercising.
--me
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