drink the seaside road, drink the dusk
and follow chain lightning.
or instinctive memory
of flare, of careless sighting. for sun.
for afternoon’s low-slung fog
as our humid breath puddles the road.
we walk tangled with worry
and tied in loose knots.
under a drowning moon struggle
to bind the books of childhood.
the last pages are turned. the last umber words.
with fashionable howls they make us
forget the concept of names,
the naming of objects requiring a name,
the objects themselves.
we forget the sea still damping our
shoes, forget the soft curve of a baby’s
wide eyes. forget churches melting under
the sand. their salt-stained walls. their
soft particles of tide.
