alas

the tide is tall today like tube lighting
leaned against a cinder-block-wall
ready to shatter and sparkle

but she says, "it's too late, " and turns
down the rickety old beach
a sandaled foot at a time, until

the silence between screams
like the dirty gulls with fat eyeballs
nasty talons scraping the sand

"it's not too late, " i hush
into her right ear, her left too busy
with waves and the steps of crabs

one eyebrow, thinned from
long plucking, from sweet attention
and the least good of all intentions

speaks to me for twenty minutes
about the waxy build up on the truth
that even this salty wind can't scour

in the morning, when the tide returns
i walk in the sunlight and remember
the cold tickle of the atlantic

the wanting of saber-sharp moonlight
to slit my boyish young wrists
and her smile.

the next time i saw her
she was in the same hooded gray sweatshirt
laughing at the big dipper and
playing mini-golf.