The high tide line
and the lace retreats
and all my boxes and beliefs
lie high and dry -
the flotsam of my life
flung onto sand, stranded 
as the waves suck back.
So here I sit: gritty, wet
blinking in the sun
at this new land, this place
I foundered on -
O Ariadne abandoned 
and alone, my linen gown 
all soaked and salt,
my lips and hair sand-streaked
my quiet lament a sky-struck
star-struck freak of fear 
of why and where and what and 
whose is that ship that comes,
that rounds the point and beats
its beak against the back tide's race?
I twist my ring and pace
and wait.
Adam's Mirror
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