COASTAL

1 0 1 R C O A S T A L J O H N G O S S L E E The fall leaves scramble over my cold feet like a wave unhinged from an earthquake. I’m afraid I won’t arrive with my hand poked through the sunroof, but I have questions about the hours of commercials tucked in the trunk with the laws and past tenses. In the drift, over the long bridge, wristwork wrings melody out of sheet music, night’s black merges into the blank city. Sunrise tra≈c’s elastic, I’m in bed, a tidal concert plays through the curtains. Osprey, the puppet waves, waxed gods gliding in the strata. What matters is the stroke, thick of the suntan lotion, where the keys lay. ...