I sit with a turtle on my back discovering the waves lapping at my toes and I hear him singing, “Why don’t they call a life a death”, and I think his eyes are facing the wrong way into his shell but I don’t prod, it’s not nice to pick at something so old.
The clouds shaped like cars keep the sun tripping over my skin and the high rise sky line sits witnessing the pulse of the ocean and I can feel his stomach slowly peeling off my back and I say, “Isn’t the snow three thousand miles north west?” to the response of a furled eyebrow, didn’t know turtles could lift a doubt in any direction but then again there’s the suction sound of a wave scraping the top layer of sand off the beach and it makes me want to scream:
I want to be alone! here not tucked in with ligaments but awash in a beer tide hammering the shell into tiny musical notes so I reach into my pocket where I have bone, cast far into the air until the horizon splits dark light and shouts back something about the length of a day but it’s too late, the turtle has gone and buried his head in the sand, I thought only bears hibernate but I guess Florida’s just as good a place as any to escape for a week or so.
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