The straps broke again. Cups won’t stay in place. Elastic around elbows. Elbows planted. Arms coiled, curling up and up. Minnows fighting hot tide. Fingers locking fingers. Feet sticking. Stuck to earth. Skin. Wet. Not knowing how to move. The next minute. An entire summer. Jaws clenched. Grip. Gripped. Vein-ridged arms. Track-marked holes. Night feeling like night. Sand is everywhere. Salty taste to spit-shined skin, spotless in the moon’s eye. The shoulders are a great place to be sunburned. Seagulls. Pipers. Roosting. Listening. Laughing. Heels and heads, grating against the sandpaper. Against the boardwalk. Against everything. Thunder rolls from a far away place. Eyes open. Close. Remain closed.

A cup falls off. Again. And the other one follows. Waves press silt. The beach. Cold. Then dry. Then cold again. Stars emerge. Slowly. Foamy. Seashells are slippers. Dunes are pillows. Driftwood is driftwood. In the dark. Saline soup. Lips. Hot oysters on hot oysters. Kissing. A deformed anemone. A mermaid’s purse. A jellyfish. A stingray. Erect sturgeon wrapping around blue neoprene. Sand rubs inside. Mixing tequila sweat with brine with lotion with tattoo ink with the tense vegetable world.


Hands brush away sand in an unconvincing way. One hand touches another, then a cup, and the other. Moving one back into place, then the other. The straps, stationary temporarily. A crevice. Himalayan. And there is breathing. Here. Gasping. There. Something. Somewhere. The counting of breaths. Six. Seven. Eight. Eight. Nine……Ten and hot clam spit in the surf floating around mouths opening on closed mouths; closed mouths gently opening on a void. The wind blowing clouds blocking the moon. Ignored hands signaling. Palms-up. Palms down. Palm branches swaying. Everything pimpled. Chafed. Tongue-touched. Hair spreading and tangling around skin creasing and pruning with mineral.

The desire to sleep. To not move. To keep eyes closed. A memory of a sunset. Declining nicely. A natural conclusion. Conclusion. Disheveled neoprene cups dangling. Reaching across sand and crust. Swinging in a breeze. Against anemic ribs empty Corona bottles flush peach fuzzed salt-shaken tears. Against today. Against yesterday. A hand touched. Tickled. Then pinched. Weak tidal movements. Contracting then expanding. A finger feeling Brazilian. Extending. Summiting. Wagging. A mouthful. Smoothing. A waterlogged beauty. Flinching.

The dunes hug forms, knees and toes. The shadows, fishy legs, and dead flower fume. The sea pulling out, claiming children's castles with it, driving away from the windblown world. The moon, up and alone. Meeting drunk skeletons in long cold gaze, bleaching twitching bones of the half-light. The stars. A mirror. Crabs crawling in groups, holding pincers in prayer with blinking eyes, prodding the ground. Digging. Shitting. Sniffing. Staring. Swamp-crotched bodies laughing. Whisker against whisker. Tooth against tooth. A scavenged nipple. Moist. Remissive. Skin. Petals. Peals. Elastic snapping. Cups disappearing. Again. The tide. Going. The morning. Coming.