[39] Sewage Spill in the Dominguez Channel, Andrea McLaughlin

I surf Santa Monica beach at sunset
when rollercoaster cars crawl up
from the pier, fall

and a Ferris wheel dangles
loose children, imperiled promises
feet (I imagine)
and twinkled light
casts the whole bay
in neon—

our waves are small tonight
between rides I am alone

but for a molted gull feather floating

the surface so gentle even as under-
currents stir the grain; in other words
I taste sand

and waste
bubbled up, incandescent
tiny globes reflect my face
a thousand times

if I am keen on looking
if I am are truly still

I will see myself already failing

in flight
struck down by nothing
in particular, like that blue birth-
day balloon shining
mylar bobs beside me now

breathless and long past

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