The pale grub of the moon
keeps staring…
Naked
flats of mud,
water-riven
and shivering,
pull
at the receding tide
as great welts
of memory
cross-hatch
the goose-bumped
bay.
Black sky
cracks
against blue-black sea…
susurrus
of wind
through
Eucalyptus…
I lean
into
the falling
smell
of death.
This article appears in Beer in the Headlights.