The picture of the blue tarantula
haunts my memory as I pace
the room, sand beneath my feet.
The beach is everywhere.
Even here, it seems to have followed
us. I look at you,
your fiery hair on soft white linen.
The sounds of your sleep battle
against the sounds of the surf crashing
to meet the shore and I wonder,
how can you lie there,
still,
when you know that I can’t sleep?
© Michele (Guard) Markley 1998
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