They left us beneath the waves
where the wolves do come,
and in this boisterous escape lye the
tiny embers of what once burned true.

Salivating, argyle-patterned-dropouts
line the coast for miles and days.
The feeble-eagle searchers with their soft framed spectacles
comb the beaches, still afraid of what lurks beneath the tide.

Carve me past truth and feeling,
carve until I forget my name in the green murk
where so much effort lay breathless.
This neon throat glistens in the rush
where never and nothing flirt with time.

I awoke buried in the sand,
her bathing suit scattered and torn around me.
Scanning the coastline I heard the seagulls call by the pier,
she hangs from there still.

12/13/2010