1. Potholes
You sigh.
“It seems like we’ve been driving
For years.”
On a spider road leading,
We know, we hope,
To the ocean; little more than
The ocean.
It was a dark day, dark road,
Not knowing
Where it ended,
(Sea, It all had to end);
Where was the goddamn ocean?
The season was over,
The sky was autumn-teal.
Wet-hooded beachvines
Scratch the roof,
Whip wheelcovers.
Muddy carpath swells, coils,
Axle rolls, see saws,
The sand soft,
(Ocean must be near).
You groan.
“Good thing the car’s old;”
Drops on the glass;
“Windows, up or down?”
You’re cold, 
And mute.
My, high, voice:
“Hope it doesn’t die.”
(It would be goddamn hell
Dying like that.)

2. Poppies
You sneeze.
“Oh, look,
The yellow-brick road.”
Ahead a blowing plain 
Of dry lavender and prickly bushes
Of  currants that look
Like poppies.
The ocean was in sight,
But silent.
“I’m cold now,”
(As if it’s your fault)
Put on the blue sweater
You never gave me.
Ahead a lavender plain
Pricked with red
A salt-bleached
Slat-grey path
A mile long—
But Sight
The silent sea.
You stare out
At October.
(Never been here
Ever been there,
A vast heath,
Midnight clouds and
Mean new birds
Snipping beneath the barefoot poppies.)

3.  Storm
Eddying  back,
Birds like black confetti
(Like the first razor’s edge
Of ashes’
bitter-burning conflicts)
The planks creak:
A hidden twittering poppyguard
Knifes up from the lavender.
We both wanted to run
To the sea,
Hushed heath
Before the endlessly
Hushing sea.
Are you thinking
Where it all will end,
These terrible birds with
Circular purpose,
Closing, rising, swarming
Like crazed black bees
Between us and the ocean?

4. Flight
You stare out
Of my handhold,
Through wingblack clouds,
To the dunes of the sad ocean.
I walked  a tottering rope
In a hard sand track.
Staring back at
Heath’s end
A black-twitching
Your weary winter coat,
Covers your head.
“I can’t hear a word...”