In my dad chair and at the beach,
just south of Incubator Isle
I found a parking spot on West Channel Road.

Crotch-forward watching presence of boys with their volleyballs and lambskin speedos,
dancing for pose the lot of them, though not one in particular,
intimidated by the dude alone, ‘we will never be like him.’

All the while,

The sand’s ahead of me,
the overlook from my balcony on Dumaine.

I wonder, thirst,

to swim in the bath of Sun and drown in each other’s moonlight,
our names forgotten and tomorrow’s ‘You Said Something’s’

before longing for the promised view, those parched dreams of you,

in my dad chair and at the beach.

The way speckled dust soars
like flocks of gulls behind the closed curtain of eyelids
the beating Sun lights them from behind.

In my dad chair and at the beach
I only dream of desert,
and not because it’s colder here than I thought it would be.

The pier’s to the left of you.

Tide rising,
at Five the dolphins break the surface of the horizon as they return from feeding.

At Six,
the gulls line up behind you to bathe in amber wind,
and the boys in speedos pack up as the molly returns them from Oz.

To know these things, the knowing waves to ride,
bucket basket of fried chicken plucked from Ralph’s,
the goodness in knowing the familiarity

that’s company of the most completed variety. It’s presence.

But who gives a shit about that.

Dig your feet into the sand,
they’ll keep cool and white.
Bulge pointed towards the sea the completed man and all alone,
legs crusted, sea salt, hell White Sands,
Truth or Consequences is a name of a town I know,
the Pacific brings you to New Mexico if you let it,
the wonder, rippling flesh of canyon land,

Far away from sissies sipping slurpees, skipping stones,
while kelp forests swerve and sway just under our surface.

Beasts and dominion,
the certainty of soil and sacred rock preferred.

Yes, crashing tides approaching
and

yes,
waves likes mountains seen off of Blueberry Ridge,
the dad bods of Winter, abso-fucking-lutely,
fawning thoughts of running into the ex who ridicules the sea of gratitude coursing through the veins,
it’s all here all of it if you let it,

But
There is some place, some place with
an exactness,
the decisiveness of the Earth,
where the moon rises above Albuquerque and I see it in your eyes,

With promise of a rising Sun as mine begins to dwindle beneath the sea.

At least in about an hour.