The air was old in the long house by the beach.
You could tell by the way the ocean spray had diminished
replaced by long-dead fireplace breath and the scent
of skin gasping for rain.
There was always dust on the cobwebs now.
Books strewn about like leather-bound pistachio shells
and a rumple of pillows beneath a lump of blanket -
teeming with troubled sleep…. all frumped by the window
with the moons dead eye. and the sound of wave after wave --
Bonsai.