I can’t keep going on
like this, a gnat drowning
in a cup of summer juice
pink and sweet and sticky and
a pink paper umbrella, where
I would like to sit with you
and watch the tide roll
in and out, dragging
under driftwood and rocks
where the hermit crabs
play, spit water bubbles
exchange shells under
the cover of salt water
sea foam sickness and
the promise of a warm
beach towel, in your car
sand and crumbs in seams
of upholstered seats, like a sunny
fuzzy memory of swimming
lessons and a marabou pen.
.
.
.