W

You can't see the moon, boy
for watching the tide wash over your feet.

Kick that neck box back
and hear the waves
boil in.
If you're as brave as you brag,
watch them
buckle
like drowsy eyes with foamy
lashes
closing for good.

And you can't throw hope high enough
for the atmosphere to grab it
'cause it's a heavy thing to carry
and you don't want it scratching up
your hands
for the salt
to burn.

I won't believe
what you say
about being done
with California.