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.