In the evenings, the hour of the abalone,
my eyes remember their loneliness.
Amidst whispers of darkness,
when birds flap west across the horizon,
when the surmising riplets of the sea
are the only noise left,
I drift into thought.
All day I drive vehicles,
have fickle interactions
under bright sunlight.
My body light, an errand in town,
talk of mayors and trees to be downed.
But let the sunlight spin away,
and my thoughts begin to stray
to nostalgias strewn by fear
like queer seaweeds stranded on the beach.
Sun, stay in reach.
My thinking starts
when you leave.