In the pub, along the coast: an Abecedarian

Absolution comes in an absinthe

bottle, green and

curvy

down the lines of this slim tourist.

Everywhere we looked the ocean

foamed like a

gray-green giant,

hovering around our feet.

In Brighton, the

jury was out, deliberating on our

knowledge of life and

living.

My life—washed ashore,

North of France—

Oui, je suis un oiseau. Je

parle le silence.

Que dit la mer?

Rest—be quiet now.

Somber pictures taken in the last light of a dying day.

The rain fell around our ankles,

unforgiving of our pant legs; this

version of us, a

weathered

Xanadu, a former kingdom—

yellowed and crumbling,

zigzags of a last memory.

Road Tripping

Weekly I travel along the asphalt hills,

car bumping in rhythm

with the dips and drops of the road.

The road stretches like a cat,

long legs and long paws

that reach out in long, lithe lines.

I wrap my fingers around the steering wheel,

cushioned by rusty foam and cracking leather,

push my foot faster,

faster,

until I can feel the electric engine

kick like a gun underneath

my body.

I cruise eighty along miles of

verdant trees and hedged scrub bush,

counting the green glowing markers

as I inch closer to home.

I see her face, rising out of haze

and sleepiness;

I push the pedal further,

closer to the metal floor until my foot

is a cinder block, grey and rough,

trying to get to her.