In the daylight
far from where people were
she pulls a feather from the sand
brushes it clean.
The same way she did as a child,
collecting feathers —
the way a clump of dust
collects more dust
by static electricity.
Rushing home at the end of each day
to spread them wide across the kitchen table
and listen to their incantations
writhing in the air.

A damp matchbook rests on top of the sand.
She flips it open without looking,
runs her thumb down the cardboard,
and finds one match still intact.
She stares ahead,
wonders if the texture on her fingertip will flake it apart,
leave her hands smelling
and feeling
like fire for the rest of the night,
or if the cold ocean water has already
washed away that part of the match —
the part that smells
and feels like
fire.

A photograph,
washed up on the same beach,
is too faded to interpret.
Two blurred forms stand very
very close in the foreground.
The background is dim,
but not dark.
Maybe it's evening.
It's not night.
Or it might be night,
but in a well-lit place,
like a city or a gas station.
I suppose it matters little
as it’s still a beautiful photograph.

Beautiful like the way
a quiet walk with the dog
is only broken by the occasional mumble
or hum.
It doesn't matter
if you speak clearly.
The dog's only listening to your tone
and your hand behind it’s ear,
and it’s memory of all your time together.
and thinking about how all people need
is enough to pretend
we're home.