Out here, the sky paints my skin gold – real gold, at least 18 carat, not pyrite, not foolish, not knockoff-shit shade.
Out here, the bugs that spend their lives skating on sand dunes take holidays on the tops of my feet and leave bites and miniscule scratches as signs of their being.
Out here, the seaweed rides the tide like dead mermaids wrapped mournful in shrouds, jellyfish circling as stand-ins for funereal candles, lighting their way into Davy Jones dark.
Out here, children navigate the lower waves in rubber dinghies and don’t look back towards dry land and parents and beachtowel/windbreaker barricades, just in case anyone gets the notion they’re scared.
Out here, I find my eyes drawn to the far side of the water and also I find myself pondering on whether a man could tightrope-walk that scimitar-blade bend of horizon, balancing beam in permatanned fingers, feet tight-packed in strange pumps and splayed sideways, tips of toes getting damp in the blue.
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