At the table she relates a dream:
crouched in an airplane aisle
scrabbling for a spilled purse—
lipstick beneath 7A, checkbook
behind 8C, cannot find the keys.
He nods as his eyes graze the bar,
waitress as she approaches.
Careful. These are hot.
She sets plates before them.
Revelations come unwanted
in the midst of ordinary days—
as she jogs or stands at the sink.
A baby wails, heap of parings
accumulates, and the prism shifts.
At Sandy Point they waded waves,
minnows nibbling their toes.
Cormorants spread dark wings to dry
while gulls wheeled and screamed.
She no longer loves him.
All week windborne sand
erodes her skin, and salt water stings.