for want of a summer day

I dream of long yellow streamers
gusting in from the end of a gray
weathered pier jutting out into
the cold Atlantic on a Sunday morning

My ashes hanging on the fat white wind
like icicles for a cold sliver of eternity
which with the heat of almost fall
into the talk of everything I sea.

I dream of blue buoys which
carefully lay out my name in the harbor -
a warning to the anyone who comes along
that I am gone on the back of gulls

on the last rays of yesterday's cloud smashing
sunshine. I am the winters first thought
and the autumns last gasp. In blue
my name bobs and rings out

I dream of tall elegance, lobster,
wearing a mauve tuxedo, snapping,
his claws, asking for the best
Shiraz this place has to offer.

On the plate, he blushes
I crack a buttery joke
He is so very sweet
as he slides down my throat.

I dream of black coarse sand
that remembers a serendipitous
volcano full of iceland's finest
hot bath water. steam. steam.

steam. and ice. I see my ashes
the yellow streamers
the weathered pier
and my name rining in blue