Smitten

I find my mouth too small here,
and there is altogether too much sea.


The stones are rolling fast enough for me,
and these formulaic tides should Stop It.


But not you, moon.
I behold your light, your power, the nightly surprise of
every new sliver.


I shiver, and there will be another flood
or at least another river turned to blood
to froth in hemoglobin waves, “Let my people go!
Let go!”
I see that it is dawn by reddish glow.

I see that it is time to smite the waters,
with the word will I smite them, turn them into sand.
How grand!
To think of crossing over on dry land
and reach the milk and honey of your hand.

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