Out past the threatening blackness, tangle

of meaning and sound that is the ocean 

at night. Smooth pink and purple stones, markers 

and pens quiet distinctions, the weekend’s

loose kimono. What's left unsaid misplaced 

and the bare horizon a single line 

from an unopened book. Anchored tankers

spell these cold-water flashbacks. Moored lightning 

is cursive neon lighting; adventure,

a backlit mood piece, lost, overstepping 

phantom crabs, fragmented badness. I see

your pining, toes huddled beneath damp sand

as a beer can warmer than blunt air stays

your laced hands’ trembling, but not your face.