1 The dunes are simmering. Sand swarms across the beach at ankle height. I tell you it all remembers you. This daybreak darkness, the obsessive surf, our old future. If you have a promise to keep be sure it isn’t broken first. * You came back from these corners of the sea, these angles of land, a born mermaid. I tasted the salt on your lips, peeled the scales from your shoulders. Your sun-blasted innocence convinced me. I should have seen the night sky in your eyes. I should have looked for moonburn. * The sea keeps beaching itself, sliding big sentences up the slope in a hissed scrawl. It knows something. It won’t stop giving me its overlapping hints, its sprawling news. The oceanic script sizzles and fades. * Tell me about that rogue summer, you and your perfect stranger making a home of this loose shore. I want traces of the pressure you put on each other, signs of your settling in. I am looking for what’s left of the shadows of clothing, the remains of your whispers. 2 Tell me the story. Lean on your elbow and let me have it, your slanted narrative. How everything turned on almost nothing, a beach cliché. Those long crashing whispers of ocean. Then something about the bravery of strangers losing themselves in each other’s lives. How we take to betrayal. I wonder if truth is always like this, the brand new thing that’s been happening for ever. The flash of surf at night. Being this close while sleep threatens, the decades intervene and your story wraps itself around me in the dark.