On a matchstick night on the rocks.

The clouds – the back of a gray god,

battered wounds bruised the bottom sky

thunder of a gale, unshod feet

traverse the dunes on wicked kicks.

We shot out like red rocket flares,

“faster!” we bellowed, and stopped until

we snatched a fish in a net and

let it flop and flounder on sand.

We wring our hands of blood and brine.

The turquoise tide came rolling in –

blackened by the still skyward storm –

flooding its stunned mouth with salt,

and stinging its blank eyes.

When he couldn’t answer our calls,

our voices swarmed – desperate flies.

Our eyes bent downward and our spines

were straight and still as wooden boards.

A crack of lightning seared the sands.

Our remorse had rung asinine,

fading, just as our quicksilver

and fledgling pink soles of our feet

beat up the bay and back inland.