Wednesday, June 2, 2010


I saw the lighthouse.
It stood, revolving beacon,
A miniature monument,
Miles down the beach road.
Oh how it grew as we
Approached it.

A clock tics,
A baseball game,
A silent, salt-aired

Dark beach.
All street lights sleep.
An orange, bittersweet moon
Looks down upon the calm sea
(Like a sad old demon).
And the stars
Shine as brightly as they may.
Two men cast bait into the low
Tide. I lay on my back,
Another prop on the Beach's stage:
A perfect production.

Bright white sand
And sun.
Blue sky,
Green water
And sun.
One eye closed
And sun.
Feet in sand,
Sun on face
And sun.
Boat moving with conviction
Along the top of the Atlantic
And sun.
Sun taking
Sun breaking
Sun giving
Sun grinning
And sun, sun, sun, sun, sun.

You are just sea glass.
Worn and soft,
Washed upon a shore after
Years of Ocean churning.

Cemetery road;
Not a fitting name.
Everything is green,
With a light breeze
(like just enough salt)
Nudging the lazy foliage
This way and that.
I see no graves,
No grim reminders of
My mortality. What
Gave this road its name?

The gulls laugh
And the gulls cry.
They feel the same
Range of emotions
As I do.
And when you punch
Sand, it feels just the
Same as a brick,
Despite its white, soft,
Gentle face.

There was a face in the
Sand. No, two.
Two faces. Both
Stared at me, with a secret
Just behind their grin.
I wanted to wipe those smirks
Off of their faces, so
I stomped and stomped
Until they were just sand again.

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