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Vacation morning number eight, good morning
Black sea waves in languor kissing

Vacation morning number eight, good mourning
I am alive and prancing at the beach
With hidden exaltation in each guilty gulp of glitter air
Waves are making love, a grace of life in reach
I am sun and salt and sand and lying on my back

Lunch back at the hotel with
Mom sobbing and all those stupid old waitresses around
Tears in the creases of her face as she eats her meal
I put my fork down and weep as well, I have found
That it’s the prosaic that beats me swiftly down

We get back home, have to get
Our nicest black dresses out
Some heathen on the bus to church stared at
Us, the Christian juggernaut
My mom and her cross and me with my pout
I still dislike the yellow phallic candles
They whimper in heat, drip and burn my hand
(swollen incantations swallow us)
As we say goodbye to the gentlest pagan goddess in the land
I touch the dead and sip the wine and stand

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