To find his buttercup eyes

follow route 15


Wave at book shops

hosting 50,000 novels

motorist prayers

laminated and

used as bookmarks.


Pass sage

clapboards with milk

bottles in windows,

and bird baths and vegetables for sale.


The air is basil tinged there

his lemon skin


cracked liquor

bottles with lips

like ginger thins.


On striped sheets, sit

empty cans of peanuts,

folded carnival rides,

and empty cars of trains,

tracks of peppermint seersucker

arrivals of perspiration at midnight.


Trusting phrase

See you next year

is carved in the breeze

vinegar stained,

gusts nudging masts

to strum their presence.


His corrupt teeth,

fine combed hairs

watch a balding eagle.


He cannot name the word for the bird

he once taught his grandchild.

Instead his hands flail

encouraging its majesty to leave

his pine perch








tickle tickle


whispering softly




Eagle soars

knows his last summer on the coast is

dusted by buttercups

that taste


and bite.