It’s 1987.
She’s smiling at the waves cascading,
         looking at a world
                       that didn’t exist.
             In the emollient, rosemary morn’s glow
             pregnant with prickly pear scents,
         a cherry-pickled dress crashed into the foam
                     and up bobbed a nest of blonde.
        Kissed by the wind, and nourished by the sea,
                     I watched my sweetheart flee.