The Sandstorms of Tomorrow

Viking premises can no longer handle
the newfound promises
which roll along the water’s edges
without any bearing,
without plush safety vests
or helmets.

There are some things
I’d like to say
but still cannot find;
because they are stuck
where they cannot be known,
in the grey corners of even greyer sandstones.

Expecting the sandstorms of tomorrow,
which were promised long ago,
to whip us up,
to flip over the sandy chariots,
the sweetened maelstrom
that stays buried beneath
tired conches and flippant shelves of kelp.

The last whale already passed by.
On his way to the shore.
The mating season has expired,
but a new one is on its way.


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