Summer

​
That was the summer we tore the days
in half: blue sky, black sand, gulls
salvaging buds of meat from knifed open
clams, their pearly oblong wings
unhinged, littering the beach.

The shoreline was a braid 
of tumbling froth trawling over
our bare feet, leaving
its anklet of kelp.  We bent down
in the dusk, flinging it off.

It was the summer of fire rings, 
driftwood dragged into a circle, 
our faces appearing when the heart of the wood 
sizzled and burst, dusting our shoulders
with sparks, our bodies receding
into the darkness, our voices
tethered, rough.
 
Summer of grunion, seawater 
sloshing in tin buckets, sugary
marshmallows blackening on a stick,
summer night washing up on the rocks, the smell 
of a rotting seal far off, embalmed in salt.  

It was the year we crawled
inside each others sleeping bags,
our hands delicate 
beneath each others damp clothes.
No one could be sure who the other was
until morning, first light
on our sleeping faces, waking

from a dream into a dream where we
could see the days inside the days,
feel the kisses inside the kiss.