I forgot what I was watching
for when I stuck my feet
in the creek in Cape Cod.
I saw only gulls
even though I wished it was you.
They
flew in the birdlime night
away from people
who searched for answers and open-mouthed oysters.
The waves ebb over memories
and I find clues
in toenail shells
and cold sand
that remind me of when we danced in
attic dust.
Promises are different here.
In the ocean they fade like
seaweed near wild
roses that don't smell.
I tread in quick sand
sinking in the possibility
of remembering
when a breath wasn't a gasp
or when my trips to the
Cape were only about shell
necklaces
and the man in the lightening
tower who showed me the way.
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