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Wednesday, December 19th, 2001

Time Event
11:00a
The Bombs Don't Fall On Hawaii
I lie at the water's edge until I'm rooted into the sand like old logs. Waves that ricocheted off the continental shelves of Japan and California come to lap at my hips. It's hot but a light rain falls. My hair is dark and knotted, and it covers my torso like seaweed. The Pacific is older than me. The Pacific is stronger than me. The Pacific is deeper than me. It will still be melting coastlines when my atoms are just the dust of dust of dust that fills crevaces in cubic salt grains crystalizing from tiny pockets of sea water trapped in the dimples of a shard of crab shell.

Current Mood: Rooted

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