Broken shells make sand beneath us, pull wave hips
whooshing alongside, sticking us together, pushes
from the shore—A distant rumble as clouds
bubble across horizon, muffled sighs against
a pinking sunset over continental edge.

Up in the sky, chariot points to the one fissure
not filling with stars as night consumes.
I see two shooting stars. You see none.
There's nothing empty in all that penetrating velvet
blue-black, when you gaze long enough:
emptiness comforts the stiff breeze.

There’s still haze, each other’s sweat, humid breaths.
No lightning yet, we watch far-off shrimp boats blink red and cream.
The shore’s distant lighthouse looms, stands higher than everyone,
alone on the peninsula, head forever whirs, searches.

During some starfall, we go to a cigar-smoking shack
shrouded in palmetto plants and enough brush
to create coolness in subtropicked weathers
where you recall a dream from last night,
"Estamos dentro con la puerta del balcón abierta,
el sol se está derramando adentro,
Toco la guitarra y te veo en una silla en el sol
como un lagarto en una piedra.



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