on the cold beach,
before breakfast,
walking the riches
of shells and past.
I found a rusted roller-skate
while listening to Blind Connie spirituals,
one earbud doesn't work,
but I can hear the ocean roar.
checking the crab traps
for something to go along with eggs,
but the frigid weather
won't let it happen.
I retire to pork and quail eggs
in the place where I died
while touching your skin
to begin with.
it's such a pleasure
to touch your heart
after the fact,
but I can hardly wait.
shivering, not from cold,
but from anticipation and fear;
the train to the city,
later.
just get through the morning
to make you mine again,
where grey is gray
and ghosts are the most.