Capsized boats litter the shore,
and seagull choirs mourn cockles lost.
Who, in their right mind, would now run across these menacing sands
full of jagged glass shards and splinters of tarry masts?
Hollow bell-sounds on playful winds.
The salty sea swallows rains
which fail to make it any sweeter.
The crackle of the radio turns
slowly into a whispery snore.
Hermit crabs to their surprise congregate on rocky slopes.
The crazy Moon brings them together
and makes them knit gaudy doylies
out of seaweed and fishnet scraps.
Simple simply no longer covers it, I fear.
The lifeguard gathers tears in vials,
rusty nails in salty brine,
rotten string soaked in rum,
labels them all in spidery hand
and keeps them on his driftwood shelf.
He used to be a deep-sea-dvier
but nowadays he prefers to search
the horizon through brass eyepieces
for the purple flicker of distant lightning.
It’s been a day of lost coins, playing cards and ticket stubs.
It’s been a day when all is swept into the nooks and cracks.
Have you seen my Lego block?
It is yellow and has six nubs on top.
It answers to the name Mathilde, Mathilde mon amour.
It slipped into the rubble of the crumbling stairs
and then let me search for it in vain
as it watched the thin grass dance in the evening breeze.
The barber pole screws forever
into the ground in streetlights’ yellow glare
and awaits airgun sharpshooters
and candy floss girls
to foul the morning air.
Darts sharpen themselves unseen
in dark, musty pubs
where beer fumes keep the wallpaper tipsy.
The tide is out and dusky sands wear seaweed wigs.
Rock pools display in cross section,
with red arrows pointing to their catch:
The sea urchin.
The limpet.
The brown shrimp.
Mussles and starfish.
Blue neon light from fish and chip shops
shines on them and on their namesakes on blackboard menus.
I close my eyes and decide I will sleep.
Dancing inside my eyelids, her face assures me I won’t.
I listen to the surf as it softly hisses, confiding in me
the countless benefits of such sleeplessness.