February 7th, San Diego

When I step barefoot on sand you're here again

warm and soft and you let me sink in while

you hold me up and make my legs like running drunk in a dream;

away from all the nice things

everyone said about you.

 

And it seems like you're right here when I inhale

salty wet air like droplets on your neck.

I make your spot on the beach towel crumpled

in the middle — you've gone out to dip your feet in

or maybe just out of sight for a second behind me

quiet as rigor mortis looking for shells.

 

Instead of sandwiches I bring sushi rolls and red wine.

I have the tuna you always liked and I don't eat any of yours

except a bite so that you have something half gone

there on your plate.  The rest of your rolls I throw with chopsticks

back in the ocean but some don't make it.

 

I have to save them from the sand.  Most

of the wine I pour in after them right on the shore.

Then I look so closely you can see the water sucking

and gulping for yourself, spitting back and swallowing again

making pink cotton candy foam

until the whole ocean is drunk. The hollow

empty bottle makes a hollow empty bottle sound

when I drop it behind me.