Waves swell to crash against a stark indifferent shore.
"My daughter had been me before."  My voice.  The waves took her
away.  My nightmare.  She danced with scattered moonlight in
the rushing foam, she crashed with them against the shore and,
standing barefoot on the sand, I stopped seeing her at all.
	Snatches of my daughter's songs, scratchy sound like
my mother's phonograph, stale memory in sepia.  I throw my
quiet goodbyes to the sea.
	The sea is for me a vast pool of tears that will never
dry.  "My daughter had been me before."  Me in my rage and
derangement, swallowing life whole.  She drank my passion
from my milk, little mouth on my loving breast.  She drank
my rage and derangement.  Now a former life whittled down to
weeping, stones standing tall while their faces corrode.