The gates all blown a bit awry—they leaned.
Our feet kicked dazzle ahead of us in an arc,
tintinnabulations of spray and spark
as sand-colored minnows skated over sand.

Bright tan people each driving their truck and music
right to the water, the water shallow, uneven
like old glass, children like minnows in
and back, in, back, in and out and back—

To be honest I couldn’t get used to the fizzy swimsuits.
The heat, seaspray, radios all made me dizzy.
I turned around, saying I had to sleep.
But how to sleep in rented rooms, crowded

with sailboat and lighthouse tchotchkes? Every towel
reminding us cheerfully that we were vacationing
guest of The Smiths (no. 215) and please
to make ourselves at home—and that view

that offered every paintbox blue and no
assurances: cobalt, lapis, cerulean,
pale lilac at the horizon, then the green
blue-green and indigo of the sea.

From Somewhere Piano (Mayapple Press, 2012).
Used with the author’s permission.