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Isabella Turns Eight

   
 

When Isabella blinks,

   
 

no longer eight,

   
 
 

or remembers

   
 

the sand fiddler's drinks

   
 

on the shore of the great

   
 
 

Pacific Ocean

   
 

where quick touch-and-go

   
 

wiped our foot sockets young,

   
 
 

washing them

   
 

naked as an angel's toe

   
 

with its cold tongue—

   
 
 

our paths

   
 

zigzagging in laughter,

   
 

wet footed and ferried

   
 
 

away

   
 

from waves which after-

   
 

wards keep God's key buried

   
 
 

in our hearts,

   
 

fluttering and stupefied

   
 

until your little brassiere pops

   
 
 

to show

   
 

my love for you so deep inside—

   
 

teardrops couldn't, teardrops

   
 
 

tried.