15.01.21                                                                                                        
                           It’s 1987.                              
         She’s smiling at the waves cascading,
        looking out 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; nourished by the sea,
                   I watched my sweetheart flee.