I pity the girls lying with their boy-fri-
ends in hot motel rooms.
I pity the lampshade, cocked askew,
beating a single-bulb light on their faces
like there was nothing but the truth.
themselves onto the shore below,
or the reeds whistling an empty-mouthed
tune to the sand.
the skin around a knuckle.
And the big motel drained for the winter,
and cars moored in the parking lot, their
fat-lipped tires circumfrenced by in sand.
But they stroll boozily along the vomit-
frothed beaches, while the waves beat
each other like wet sheets.
The night manager and the cook in the
diner both believe they have no parallel in history, and entered the world before pain.
Far away, the night drains the streets of
beach houses and lampposts,
or a soggy fence that catches the spill of
the dunes. All these things are fastened
to the ground, but slip away into silence,
not protesting at all at the disappearance.
Or something like that.