Madonna and Log


Nobody asks
what it is that has me
brushing wet sand kindly
with a flattened palm,
whilst
cradling a dead log
like a baby seal.

With sanctity I sit
in blue and white,
on the beach,
head suitably tilted.

Madonna and log.

It,
eyeing me fondly
smiling as I lullaby

it.

Him.

And if I can hold us together
in the simple song I sing,
the red raw gut-wrench
just might stop
and still itself
in the not-Now.

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