Fresh breezes luff the cedars over & above the ticking guckiness: a beach replete with angry ernes, tacit terns, and hungry gulls. Each of us left hoping to cope with the poppling tide, almost as if we have a choice: “If you’re not here, you don’t care.”
Having found the distance wanting, we know the way we’ve come, if not the anyway back. Not enough where to keep us there, anyway. Having opted not to disbelieve, we remake the world in front of a world left over. So before we’ve even left, we’ve arrived where we already are.
Becoming our own ghosts, we don’t learn much as we grow older, but we suspect a lot. Wise enough to know far worse than this, we still get the chance to show our inexperience. “Crazy people,” we like to say, “don’t know they’re crazy.” And the whole idea is to die as late as possible.
Meanwhile, over there, endearing beyond desire, fear, or despair, sirens decorate the beckoning rocks, wasting their lives waiting for wayward sailors instead of offering swimming lessons to kids. With dusk, their breasts will start to glow like lanterns wishing they were fireflies.