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.

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Spread thin on sand, tired ribs contact,
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 circular season

​

We turn from the shore and leave
our summer selves: ghosts in primary colors, oceans between us, cool waves lapping at what's left.