i gave my confession down at the beach.  tide out and salted heart.
i sold it to a man in neon boardshorts
with a surfboard clamped under his armpit.
chalk pillars and a congregation of seagulls
fighting.  conversational scraps.
an isthmus that leads in to the water
before it backs down.
we go.

i spilled it all, my guts, my broken guts.
vomited them up on the pebble cast.

there is something about the gait of the sun as
is it turning away from our sky-
soft and low-
that brings it out of me.