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Sand

  • Marissa Karcher
  • Feb 15, 2024
  • 1 min read

Why can’t I be the soft 

sand, comforting and cleansing

you, keeping the beach 

renewed and repaired—grainy

and constantly changing. 


The hermit crab holes under 

me. A sun ray on a baking day.

The surfer, the worn down street, the conch shell,

once listened to, not knowing if the tides were truly being heard—

and you. 


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