The Sun In Galveston
the sun in galveston.
Glaring back at me, the sun so
white-hot it turns the thick black lenses
of my sunglasses yellow.
This dirty beach, half-ocean sand, half-
dead rats here—(We found them more than a decade ago) —
Half-lost my mind, they might say,
for coming here again
for coming here alone.
I watch a fisher man set three poles
against the sun,
seemingly unaware of where I am walking
Wondering where all this filthy salt
gets off, sloshing about in this great, big bowl
of imported granite slabbery.
What if I dove in? Would it float me up...
Or swallow me whole like I
pretend life has not done,
is not doing,
playing solitary adventurer when I know
I am just lonely.
The sun and I, we share this. We revel in this consistent inconsistency, this mercurial continuation.
Fated to this white-hot existence,
Glaring bright all day, faking it till we feel it—
Then settling back into the dingy saltwater each night,
Licking up the drops
From the world’s dirty face.