Until the Full Moon Has Its Say

Abandon

41 Abandon Breakers peel white as they see the end coming. Days of dip and slouch in the wind all the way from Sheboygan, deep blue, no salt, a lurch as the current shifts. Wave-head tosses back its hair, nods to the muscled shore. Then beach—like this one. You can’t think of anything to say. Feet sink in. A green itch of weeds at the top of the dune and downwind absence. It should be grill and cold Molson, Frisbee caught in the updraft, creek dodging crooked rocks, boots in the ashes of a wood fire. Instead, broken water and this sky of mine, hung on a bare-branched oak. ...