SEASON OF THAT

A wintered
sea breeze
cuts across

my face,
my throat

I heave

a heavy
sigh and grip
the rail, all
sterile-white

and high over
the carnival
shops below

the tart lemon
and ice, gaudy
bubblegum-pink

a sprite descending

And as the
tears fall
clouded

like ammonia

I hate them
I hate everything

especially you
for dying here

determined
and slow

in a tee shirt
now outsized

In the season
of this, of that

of the riptide
that bites from
underneath

I am ruby red

glowing in
the birth of
evening cool

pomegranate-
black and
too sweet
to be real

Sand beats
at my legs
grown thin
with waiting

for me to be

I see
I feel

the salt of
the Atlantic

the too-pale
flesh of your
cheeks, the

grey flecks…

Like everything
now, so out
of season