Poem.

The harsh salt spray becomes wind again
and taps against the end of my nose,
rubs against the mercury of my lips
and I cough from the advent of evening.
There are no soldiers here but we salute anyways
when girls parade past us
their arms trimmed golden by the glow of every sun
that has ever set over the east coast
on their way out west.
I round a corner and then
and then the bricks change course below my feet
where a pattern comes undone from effort
from overweight tenacity,
from diligent hunger that gnaws nightly
from finger to finger along the railings of our well defined lives.

-Rich
too much for you to remember