Sixty-three stories above Surfer’s Paradise, AU
my glass is touched by alcohol for the first time
just as the sun smooths away into a hovering night.
At seventeen, my hand is forced up
by a tongue curiouser and curiouser,
and by *****’s Don’t be a *****
from behind the kitchen island.

Not much stays:
the bite of raspberry *****,
chocolate-chip mint ice cream,
a shower turned hot, then cold.

***** wakes me with a kick
Put some pants on
and we walk the boardwalk at dawn
just to feel things, he says.

The city wakes, yawning, stretching
with the tide rolling ever-in
to wash away yesterday’s footprints,
and ahead, a busker opens for the day,
finger pickin as if inviting
my soles to dance
with the ocean, and sink between its hands.