Here’s a beach numb with sun, flanked by dusty rose hips.
Two men, two women, a guitar, some bottles,
all strewn across the scorching sand
in a collapsed conversation round the fire
–yes, a fire! You can just make out the twist in the lady’s arm
as she reaches for a cigarette.
White on white, a fire at noon.

Were you living in no direction? Yes, I was living in no direction:
1968, you know, we had just suspended judgment.
It was a windless place.
We had Times there.
We drew a circle in the sand and we burned wooden objects
that we found at the back of our parents’ garage,
and the Times combusted in their circles
while the future waited patiently
like an heirloom in the attic of the old house.