Low Tide

under sunflowers

Low Tide

We visited the broken statue
near the estuary where
water eats stone

You shook the sand from your hair
with your left hand extended
out to the ground

I drove the lumber truck
that year, while you prayed
to St. Francis

My mother baked bread.
I wrapped rough slices
in newspaper daily

My hand on your side.
I collapse to the sound
of birds screaming

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