Some place

We went to Chincoteague where I swore to
write poetry, it was loblollies, tumps of
marsh grasses & the lighthouse there

& after we stopped talking and
the blue light was on the water no
moon bc she rises right now closer
to dawn, I walked in the wet salt air
to a restaurant where a local guy was
setting up music. Everyone knew
one another,

I had to wonder at being a
stranger some place that is
home to same people so long
that cigarette breaks are muscle
memory motions, do you recognize
yourself better

in a place like that or is it even easier
that way to hide

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