woolf-beach

September 7, 2024

Meanwhile the shadows lengthened on the beach; the blackness deepened. The iron black boot became a pool of deep blue. The rocks lost their hardness. The water that stood round the old boat was dark as if mussels had been steeped in it. The foam had turned livid and left here and there a white gleam of pearl on the misty sand.

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Thought:

“I don’t really know what kind of voice my poetry has because it’s always changing, or at least I hope it is. But it cannot change much because it is always me or some form of me.”

John Ashbery

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