mike, in july, again

When you arrive it is via
Lighthouse, non operational,
coast of Maine,
one I see in the pages of one
of my romance novels I used to be
embarrassed to admit I read. Last night
the couple finally comes together
in the wind strewn salt grass above

granite rocks part consumed
by sea. I remember
being on the road~
what this means,
living from a pick up truck
traveling county routes, state
two lanes forest dirt & rut all over
New England, the dip in my gut
then rise of pine pitch
scent
worn on
skin &

the lighthouse, the lighthouse
the lighthouse, against the
sliver sheen blackness or
pure blues of sea and sky,

this is when you first come back,
a year after your suicide
slick with guilt and disruption me
moving like a snake between rocks
underwater, am I there was I even
there don’t look back
no time, I am pushed without wonder
or reflection, sensing the motion of
the floor submerged by changing
fluid much as I am sensing motion
itself, 27
on the road

so long ago
a lighthouse, to be caught
in the singular struck
gaze of such
nondescript substance
as light,

~i see the cavernous oranges, the slate
black granite and shadows cast, the fires
the shale, the smoke, the burning

i see what you’ve come again
to protect me from, the lovers
moaning in grass, the sea ready
to gaping mouth swallow them
whole, the light, or absence
of it,

underneath, trying to snake
away

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