Santa Cruz
although it could just
as well be Papua, New Guinea
for
all I know
The sun a pale neon memory
submerged
in
surging green-dark water
I’ve
seen flames the very same color
burning
up out of the wet sand
cormorants in their feathered robes
huddled on the rocks
above
tidepools edged in rust & Mexican turquoise
The
clawhammer guitar curving against the wind
plays
the tune you thought only you knew
the music & commentary piped in
through
speakers
nailed to the graywhite sky
I
may have been reaching out to you with two or more hands
at
that very moment
like a
riddle that can only be told in Sanskrit
as
3, no check that, 4
pelicans
flying in formation
glide
in low over the surf
&
disappear into the fog
