#12
It is the waiting and not the wanting,
The transit of the day into shadows,
And the perpetual whispered taunting
Of the waves, in their straight, mad rows,
That is so hard for us to bear.
What none of us can know for sure
Has petrified us -- our fingers, faces,
And what is hidden by our dresses.
The architect of our village is gone,
Our seamstress too. Who will call us
To the beach, and call the others home?
The one man here is quite useless.
He wanders the street, chucking our chins,
As if we had more to offer him than fins.
