At Portuguese Beach

Dylan Crawford

A breeze through the window
like
a thin sheet of aquamarine glass

against our cheeks, passes
over
the face of the waves to a
dying

horizon. Parked on a crag,
motionless
like flightless birds nudged
closer

by our warmth. Taking note of
others
in mid-flight: pelicans
seamlessly carve

the air with knife-like wings,
our steps
out the car fall through the
narrow

ice-weeded path to our
outcrop where
the wind assembles her rights
over your

midnight hair. We cower under
a blanket,
warmer, whispering lies,
licking new wounds.

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