St. Augustine, July

The romance novel in the thrift store that falls open naturally, like a ripe piece of fruit, to the juiciest sex scene. The secondhand wicker, the rattan, the hibiscus, the pelicans, the pink, the glass lamps filled with whelks. The cheeky gulls, those beggars. The insistent breeze from downshore that smooths my white sand footprint to a rippled crater within two minutes. The startling moment when the wind briefly dies. The ice slumping, shrinking in the styrofoam. The cumulonimbus that mound thickly in the southeast sky at the same hour everyday. The waves, mulling it greenly over and over and over, endlessly. The light of six o’clock that turns my forearms to galaxies, of the kind only seen far outside of town in the deep wintertime.

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