REN PIKE

These coasts are ghosts, highways in between 

these coasts are ghosts, highways in between
departure afoot, hard on the gas

tomorrow I'll hit motels, remote
tide far out, new moon eyes half-closing

the roar is no more waves rushing rocks
susurrating vehicles pass fast

night time pause recalls, inlets, tickles
breakwater arms out weathering the storms

boat's up on the hard, accepting fall
scuppers open, seasons passing through

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