A lucid moon bows its head, supplication to the trigger
Quick winds running their race with gulping breaths,
Stirring sand like sugar into your malted chocolate eyes.
Nestled handlebars awaiting the excited grip of a curious child,
Your lips force a promissory grin.

No one wins.

Dry tears punctuate the polished, wasted spit of a clam
Cut through your heel, dark blood sponged up by sand.
You sing and think of drowning, of those who fed the sea,
Then skip seashells across the back of bruised hand,
flotsam fingers of wood, coral, shiny plastic potato chip bags.

Everything discarded eventually finds the sea.

Even the odd tranquility of sand pressed between your toes.