FREED VERSE

the sand is metallic
tide crashes over mercury silt
nearly-risen rays bleach galloping waves--

they refuse to crescendo.

it is fifty degrees and this coffee is cold,
yet my palms sweat--they know 
what is to come. 

they sweat and they breathe and they sweat and they cry! 
speak, memory! 
so that I might 

relive the days you thumbed my collarbone,
whispered to me by the lamplight, 
bookmarked Kerouac with a lit cigarette. 

I spark one now. turquoise smoke cuts the straight-edged horizon.
taking in the December sun while not thinking of you.

trois ans, I say, trois ans.