There's a thought
I have
(quite often)
where I'm
standing on
Agate Beach
and your feet are in
the waves

and you're telling
tales of the under-toe
where the ripples
entice like
ribbons
and the steady beat
of here-and-back
tempts you with
its song

The one
where you've collected
seashells
crab shells
every shell
you've seen.

I usually think this
when I'm on the bus
and my throat is dry
and the cigarette smoke
stinks like the bitter days,

the post-shore days
the after the golden coast line days

where cigarettes were cheaper
than a divorce
or goodbye.