The Oceans Geographic

The Oceans Geographic


The charm of daylight savings time
brushes him onto the porch before
the coffee cools. The moon flirts with perfection
filtered through night air tightening with cold
harsh on his lungs, but the kind of cold
that one might associate with preservation,
like snow at the dump.

His eyes remain closed
as if the surf could sting
at this distance, yet it dampens the notebook
face up on the table before him.

A long deep breath and it’s
enough to be thinking about
a symphony long forgotten in composer and melody
and all sounds relapse under

the percussion of lavender.
A glint of silver on the surf turns out
to be a bag of crisps.

And it all reminds him of
the triviality of what’s happened
but how serious it all was.


They will know who wrote King Lear,
as he always had.

And the friend at the of the line
doesn’t pick up
but that’s okay because the letter mailed
will be far more important.

Anyway the girl walking by
breaks her gait,
or you think she does,
as a half-smile overshadows
the turquoise dress, a dress
meant for a bridesmaid.
The receiver drifts slowly from your ear
at the same speed she passes before you,
friction of ringtone, cold air, and playful lust
separating in a zero gravity drift.

And your friend, three hours in the future
feels the drag as well, you imagine.

Or maybe it’s meant for
the crow picking at popcorn
in the field behind you.


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