I remember leaving in the middle of something
my shoelaces were untied
& my throat was dry. It may have been Saturday
morning. I had memorized the way the dog barked
at 2 a.m. on a moonless night. The sky dark the
pavement still warm.
If I had a gun I
couldn’t wait to use it.
Blank pages in the
Jim Nod Variorum,
a picture of the Tupelo surf
hanging from the rear view,
empty beer cans
rolling around under the seat.
The last day of summer lasted 3 months.
The light squared up between tides.
I was alone in the line-up. It was always “locals only”
which meant god wasn’t invited.
There was a cloud parked on the horizon.
I thought it looked like an albatross drumstick
marinated in phosphorescent kool-aid.