I utter a kind of prayer,
for those soles to soak into this slab,
hoping never to leave the ground.
Season without impression, a day keen
to melt into another with its ambiguous grey:
what are you?
Tuned out to all the whistles, shouts and hollers,
an orchestration without the beach music,
just a clipboard-worth of a segment of life.
Officially we will plunge in sequence,
only the usual players will arise
for the knighting, honours fluttering.
Not even a joust or some proud contest
to the death, a chance at eternal recognition,
this is just another box to fill.
I wish against the future,
seeing no reflection, only they peel
the wrappers off icy poles and gulp sausages, restless.
Two hands wind up wet ends into a ponytail.
Glad-wrapped sandwiches are disinterred
in search of anyplace but here.
A number in the queue, I am holding
out for an exception. But the line watches.
They cannot wait all day.
I beg to differ, if it takes the sacrifice
of a few small hours when instead
I fall through the horizon
discover light retracting
this is the stuff of dreams
you have not yet suffered
in all the uncounted, numb, nocturnal hours.
But we are saved in ways we cannot see.
We push up from this forever world,
legs beating us back awake and up.
When I return years later to the scene
they have filled it rock-solid:
part-wish, part-truth, part-liquid.