Point Limas, on a normal day
May remind you of a painting that used
to hang,
with a gradient of brown, black,
one that raised goose bumps on the nape
of your neck as you passed,
Cold sweat and a restless sleep,
with indecipherable visions
Of a nameless place where the sun is a
muted glow behind a tenebrous brow,
Scrunched over the roiling sea,
Salt-licked piers and paint pulling back to reveal shoddy brick work,
an infestation of quixotic creatures in
every bracket, brace, and timber,
Pattering behind every surface,
The inhabitants sit down on the beach,
not inside their patchwork houses,
They are overcome by the ocean,
Flotsam bones too damp for tinder,
sinews stretched over every
Creaking tendon and taut fiber,
Sea air in their lungs,
permeated with salt and brine,
Sea foam in their veins and anemones
on their fingertips,
Soddening each page they turn of
their book,