the joke is that I see the moon; its light
reflected off all the dew on a single leaf;
each drop arousing everything
in me. the truth is that I prefer the beach.
I’m tired of thinking about the stars
and cement and the foliage and all
the moisture each contains.
the truth is I love the shore. each grain
of sand is something that should
have killed me since I turned fourteen —
an empire of rock grazing the skin,
becoming the ocean’s foam. I ate
a meatball sub while I watched the water
take back everything it assumed was owed.
about the author