Mornings I drive to the ocean. Just to look, before work.

I sign over the seaside cottages and bright flares of birds. Dogs go
gnawing their legs, see. They are none to me.

I force my entire face down there.

Green appears. Part of the weeds move and some grass
falls over. A few trees take place along the bay.

I can’t talk. Boats
honking to and fro
for no reason I can see.
To honk all day, like flies, and be done.

I should have worn a sweater.
The sand is cold and wind
fills my linen shirt like fat.

Driving back about the hills and the shadows
of hills, they appear like a calendar. I’m thinking nothing

comes from this. We are like enemies if we are quiet.
I drive. If I am a black piece against the sky, a wire.

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