the beach is really quiet today in spite of spilled ice cream and footprints left behind by a generation who still has not known the shores of old and the foxholes through which a reluctant liberty quietly arrives like a heart broken whore the breeze is desperate to make me smile and see me flicker my arms about my head like a puppet the breeze is not at all like the chiffon of the bride turned widow on that shore of ashen filled dreams collected by a letter delivered ten weekes later no these children with the ice cream and soccer balls and songs about a dance that is so disassociated from anything that i know will never understand these shores the way these shores have come to know me