A broken light embedded in
the drywall flickers and reminds
me of an eye. I walk along the railing
of the balcony and drink my daily serving
of the sky.
The beach in the distance is a woman’s
lips curving at the mercy of the surf.
The sand will burn your feet down
to the skeleton, but the water is as cold
as mountain wind.
All the clocks in town are somehow
broken. When I ask they say they just don’t
have the time. The bar didn’t have the will
to tell me either, and they garnished all
they served there with a lime.
The empty streets were peaceful in the winter
because people save their travel for the spring.
Starfish stick to the underside of the boardwalk,
and the neon lights kick on with sounds of static.
Teleporting Typewriter 