Lower Prospect, N.S.

The Atlantic doesn't want us here,
but we don't care.
The ocean spits her hammers
and everything is hostile.
Wind cuts,
rain slams,
we're in it.
Soaked to the rags,
no sure footing,
no shelter from this wet chin music.
With all of this life between our lips,
we cough grey-eyed into a tempest.
The sea is upon us,
as it always is.

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