The sun hugged the coast like roll-on deodorant in perfectly sculpted arm pits. Sun sat individually on pollen or marine layer fog that slid from ocean wave's roofs like so much snow melting in spring time air. The whole day was a cheek resting on worn wooden slats pulled from a fence that kept ghosts of cattle from wandering into thickets of rose-hip and discarded engine parts; rise and fall of crickets, like the tapping of a truck as it sits idle on a hill with no roads leading to it.
On the ocean: away from dry ground that looks jealously upon rusted steel drains that feed run-off water onto rock strewn beaches. When I see this dry ground and the large cracks that form, I press my finger deep into the abyss and imagine a drop of water falling from underneath my fingernail, falling long distances to caverns masked by caked-earth makeup, where it makes a perfectly crisp sound of another's tongue gently touching the roof of my mouth.
