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Maybe if I stood here long enough
the powerful salted
wind would sweep me clean. But,
instead, memories of a friend lost to
me slowly drift in
from the elusive horizon. A
polished black stone's
revealed as the waves' verge slips back to
the sea. The soles of my feet
are dampened and the fine, tan sand grows
mirrored rivulets. He
was memorialized in the high
school yearbook the
spring after his life burst from his chest
in the hot Vietnamese
jungle. A few miles down this coast
the military jets
still fracture the blue San Diego
sky. He returned,
casketed, within the huge belly
of a droning
transport as the palms swayed nearby on
the broad, luxuriant
streets of Coronada. I see
a sail struggling
in the heat waves evaporating
the distance. He
gazes at me, unexpectedly,
from the other
side of the world. Rafts of gulls argue
as surfers balance upon
their fluorescent boards, trying to run
the breaker to its end.
1990 Alfonso Volo
ALFONSO VOLO lives in Eden.

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