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
celebrating.
Grey Sparrow Journal 