gearhart

We walked to the shore
Running hands over wet rope
Ash melting neatly
Into clothes

We kissed
With surf in our ears
Grinding sand
Between teeth

And in the cabin
Filled with sandpipers
Stitched onto pillows
Water-colored on walls
Tiny statues on the windowsill
We slept under the table
Among dirty wineglasses
The smell of salt
And smoke
Among paper and pencils
In the lacy shadows of the fire