Common Shores

Shoreline: Pemaquid Beach, Maine.
Even white-caps are gray today:
lacquered waves hurdle apace with rushing skies
in a late, wry September
.
Backside of the beach,
clam flats spread, the color oats.
We lay our bets, these poker chip days,
me for the clouds, you for the waves.

​

Spread thin on sand, tired ribs

,expand in perfect arrhythmia.
I catch you staring at a blond all shades of gold.

She comes between us, scalpel-like.

We rake seaweed with frozen hands,
collect periwinkles and count them

like days for season to season

We turn from the shore and leave

 

Our summer selves: ghosts in primary colors,

oceans between us, indifferent waves lapping at what's left.