“ Within a mosquito’s internal organs
a dark red dream.”
Walking dead beach dreams.
Swift falling leaves
and gulls, the first year’s crop
wondering where all the food has gone
as fish and chip vendors are closed for winter.
Cold comes first as a whisper
then a howl
covering up sands with new storms.
Old letters and bottles, from other countries
coast line dangling the corpses of the small
the harmless who have
danced with the storm devils. Lost.
Sun is shiny.
Warms in the mid-afternoon before it
dives and drowns
into the cold and ocean depths of
night as goes rushing in
like a rip tide.