Unborn and unwanted stars

dim the night sky with terrors.

Walking the beach with only

the white surf-foam igniting

our way, we cling to ourselves,

clenching in the autumn chill.

We’ve shrunk inside our old age.

Our tempers are those of plants

 

gripping the dunes with powerful

and deeply committed roots.

Walking in sand with a cane

to support my offside challenges

but doesn’t defeat my intention

to reach the lighthouse atop

a bluff I rolled down drunk some

fifty years ago, the whiskey

 

upholstering every inch of me.

You never believe my stories

of college drinking sprees, the streets

of Cambridge wrinkled and tinted

colors no one had ever seen.

You claim that clouds have occluded

an ordinary but moonless night.

The sand shifts underfoot. Making

 

a tripod of myself, I stand

a moment staring out to sea

where some version of me plays

with dolphins. The dark stars bloom

with a shade of black no light

can escape: the same terminal

gravity that grips us so tightly

we almost fail to laugh aloud.