Meet me between the place where the sky drips
with molten gold and the place where perfect waving green-grey grasses fall in line
with the rhythm of the perfect waving
ocean.
Meet me there.
I promise: we will create lies out of the loose ties,
find our way in the silver of the Big Dipper,
stuff our shoes with long gilt grains,
as we fill our hands with those particular pebbles from the oceanfront.
We have so much to catch up on, now that we don’t talk,
I haven’t seen you in a week and I’m hardly welcomed at your doorstep,
me, being so attached

to the coastline.
I find myself instead a shallow ameba, handing myself off
to the thick inlands, deep waters,
eventually swallowed whole by the waterbed.
Everytime
I dream I see you by the ocean,
casting a line out into the heavy, sunset-lilac water. I try to reach you,
make amends, for the grief caused, for despair made. But
every time you seem
to melt into the dusk, disintegrate by the sea, lost in the dunes and the grasses,
and by every sense, leave me
at the unmoving shoreline,
handing myself over
by high tide.