Manhattan Beach, 2064

Cedar log burns, fragrant, smokeless
splash of light, heat
on cold dry sand.

Ahead, surf gleams in starshine,
whispers chill salt to my cheek
where warm flannel scratches.

To my right, waves growl
along the jetty’s broken riprap.

Tiny sand fleas rustle in dry seaweed,
hop on my feet where I sit
smooth pebble in my left hand
rough shell-shard in my right.

It would be 2064, if there were still calendars.
It would autumn equinox, if there was still time.
This place would be Manhattan Beach, north of Rockaway, if there were still maps.
I would be a hundred years old, if I’m still alive.

No clouds. No moon tonight. No smell of gasoline, exhaust, sound of traffic.
Only firelight picking sand-ripples out of the dark,
limning my footprints, only mine on all this beach

once strung with cotton candy, salt-water taffy, sunscreen flavored with coconut and banana oil.

Behind the low bluff of sand. Behind the dune grass. Something rustles in the dark.
I tell myself skunk. I tell myself garter snake.
I am alone.
I smell the urine of the wolf.

Available! High-Voltage Lines, Knocking from Inside