To Word the Ways Dusk Stunned Fire

Broken shells make sand beneath us, pull wave hips
whooshing alongside, sticking us together, pushes
from the shore—A distant rumble as clouds
bubble across horizon, muffled sighs against
a pinking sunset over continental edge.

Up in the sky, chariot points to the one fissure
not filling with stars as night consumes.
I see two shooting stars. You see none.
There's nothing empty in all that penetrating velvet
blue-black, when you gaze long enough:
emptiness comforts the stiff breeze.

There’s still haze, each other’s sweat, humid breaths.
No lightning yet, we watch far-off shrimp boats blink red and cream.
The shore’s distant lighthouse looms, stands higher than everyone,
alone on the peninsula, head forever whirs, searches.

During some starfall, we go to a cigar-smoking shack
shrouded in palmetto plants and enough brush
to create coolness in subtropicked weathers
where you recall a dream from last night,
"Estamos dentro con la puerta del balcón abierta,
el sol se está derramando adentro,
Toco la guitarra y te veo en una silla en el sol
como un lagarto en una piedra."