Monday, July 9, 2007

the morning clam harvest: a poem


as a young boy
in the valley
near the beach
we woke up


we held the clams
in our hands
we touched the clams
with our fingers
we knew what it was to live
and also to die


i miss those days
not a day goes by
that i don't miss those days
those good days
those clam picking days
those days when we learned

to be men

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