The Man and the Shoreline


I think . . .
He needed to be weak again, not for-
ever but for awhile. To lie there as
a valued child and have his head held for
him, bare and cradled in a lap–caress-
ed. He dreamed of a woman’s legs, worn
about his ears as buffers–mufflers–to regress
the world of dystopian sounds to stillness. A For-
mless humming in his ears, with the pres-
sand pulse of her heart next his cheek. The sore-
ness, the tsk tsks meant to rend, now only kiss-
es beneath a mouth made quiet. Nothing more
of righteousness. Only child eyes, dried, guess-
ing at an open sky. His heart no more
a carapace, wrapped and stored to freeze,
but one life-like, a monarch on the breeze.

By: Graham Boldt


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