Over the summer his mother left him at the beach. He’d walk over the shingle, past the spidery cluster of sticks that was once a yacht, to a spot beneath the cliffs. While he was reading a man came up and asked if he wanted to wrestle. He looked up at the man, surprised, and replied « where ? » The man pointed to some ground beyond the beach. We never found his body.
October 10, 2012
This entry was posted on Wednesday, October 10th, 2012 at 5:59 am and posted in New poems. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.
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