The shore is falling away from the page.
A blue yawn.

I lived here, and could not forget.
Even as the salt-air dried my thoughts.
Nothing but the lungs to cradle
that soft beater.

I would call out through
the shape of its face like winter
stealing the last of the warmth from this shed.

Not yet abandoned, the body seizes,
the oceans crash for an explanation.

Nothing is the same.
Still, as the shutters fly off the frames,
I cannot abandon my station.

The beachgrass bends to the west like rain.
This is the prologue to the quiet book.

Two beautiful birds.