Rusted puddles, ritual Viking filtertips, liquid silver & the time it takes

The sea-breeze strumming the wires to inoculate a feather of drifting fog that just now starts to dissolve.   No real choice but what darkens the blood seven miles from the vague notion that there ought to be twenty one steps from here to the beach (there are 32) & nothing follows you across the wet pavement except a few rogue rain-drops & the Lankavatara Sutra like a chainsaw throbbing in the ridge-bone above your left eye & whatever else was stashed among the needles & pearls that define this early morning ocean light

          & as the fog peeled off
          another blue sky that
          no one’s ever seen before I said
          Here’s one semi-brilliant moment in the otherwise
          fitful swampage of the day

                        you only get one

          & we left the motor running
          when we walked out to the edge
          as though there was a chance we’d
          actually make it back