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low tide
alan shapiro
on the mud flats
where i’m walking
each step pushes the wet
out from beneath it
to a dry halo
of a heel and toe
which as i lift it
dampens to
a trail of pools
behind me as i walk --
i make them all
along the flats and
when i circle back
they flash like lakes
seen from a plane
my body could be
the shadow of, inching
across the continent
down below, inside
of which 1
between the sand grains
in the infinitesimal
capillary spaces
closing and opening
under my steps are
creatures too small
to see or name
for whom each grain’s
another land mass,
a different continent,
which makes the water
rushing in as my foot lifts
another ocean rushing out
as my foot falls,
so that wherever i go
quakes and floods,
subductions and extinctions
on a scale too
miniscule to 2
go with me -- over
the mudflats happy
and 3 like
a leper without his bell,
wandering the world
meaning no harm.
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