i.
The rich man.

Somewhere where the shingle slopes up to the shore and the sun scattered
patternlike diamonds on our skins and the costumes we wore were too tight to fit in
we frittered away the beach and the day in soft talk.

Sweet words once were spoken but now they lay broken between the sea and the tide line,
somewhere in time.
ii.
The beggarman.

Unshaven,
who will spare me
the price of a tea and would
that save me from drowning
in the depths that we
used to be?

Now behind me, the diamond patterns still blind me and bring tears to the jewels in my eyes,
if I could unsign the times which time lent me, which ultimately aged and then bent me, would it set me as free as the shore and the sea?

iii.
The thief.

But each ocean goes on until it is gone
and when the sun drinks it dry at the
edge of the sky,
we are gone too.