These are the nearest answers I
could give. I find the sand uneven.
My cheek pressed into the grain and
eyes looking out over the expanse
on miniature dunes. The background
growls and waves, crashing and this
is why there is not a home, a place
to park, where I could be if I wanted
something without definition or shape.
I’m starting to look like something
that should not have gotten out of bed.
Jeff Magnum’s voice stuck in my head.
I want to force the seaweed from his
hand, replay the whole death scene,
have it looped ear from ear, a reel
that just missed the hearing
and build upon the promise of being.