Flat, under the fourth time: she’s fretting over something
a thousand miles away and the sky is turning orange
and all you want is tequila–silver–mixed with ginger beer
but no one is budging this time. Between a rock and a
hanged man is how the spread is laid. But that doesn’t
matter… What does matter is how the sand feels like clay

at the shore’s break, and it’s her favorite place to sit when
you go to the beach together, her legs half submerged
to some greater body flowing between the two of you.
There are violets blooming in the field across the waterway
now, there are firewheels and sand and the earring she
lost on the opposite shore, but doesn’t care, and no one does.


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