During the waxing of the sturgeon moon
the bay stretches and contracts
with ever-increasing drama.
Last night I could swear
a spotlight atop the seabed illuminated the sky.
Checking my bank account online this morning
forced me to tally all the bills still to pay.
Later I surrendered to the vista.
When I rounded the bend on the beach
a colony of seals ignored me.
Surely there is value
in hearing a pinniped bark
with a sense of entitlement
that is neither nouveau nor ancestral.
the age-related changes to my skin
made me crave Klonopin.
I yearned for the immaculate,
scrubbed all surfaces,
hid the clutter,
and arranged wildflowers in curated vases.
But arriving means your departure is inevitable.
And when you are here
every utterance churns up an issue
that then must be resolved
(when you say this, I feel that…).
O strike me dead now,
while I teeter on the edge
of giggling ceaselessly
at the inanity of relationships.
Must I confess to my own imprudence?
Must I alternate between strategic forgetting
and deliberate forgiving?
Past some dusty crossroad,
one’s own personality becomes a penitentiary.
do not have “a relationship talk” in this zip code.
Best to transfer all discord
onto decisions about dinner.
Study the patterns:
the contours of the wiggly dune,
the trajectory of the fatso seagull,
the tracks the jeep’s tire leaves in the sand.
The big picture is redundant pointillism.
I might argue with you now…
but when you leave,
I will crave your close-up
and yearn for your comical whine.
Surely the bobbing head of a seal
in the whitecaps matters more
than any utterance
calculated to explain my behavior.
The retreat to low tide
leaves behind sea lettuce,
and yes, horseshoe crabs—
confirmation of a crime of indulgence
cheered on by the swell of the moon.
Coupled with the wind
these events will accumulate
into something like a dune,
a patina of repose,
but also a mistrust fund
consisting of assets from inevitable nor’easters.
This makeshift cliff is ready to collapse;
the sea will reclaim its property.
If poems are also evidentiary,
why have I failed to convince?
I still yearn for the immaculate.
I’d rather be fanciful than obvious
though I’m not sure
I can afford it right now.
At the end of the day,
gesture tickles words into relevance.
And the mute deer ticks
have clearly made their point.
I have driftwood to collect
and loans to pay back.
If you go,
you miss the blooming of the coneflowers.