Vestiges

Essex, Old Lyme, Saybrook, etc. — spattered along the coast, they never dry up, only linger — villages for the old and retired. There are no cliffs; faces are chalky. Salt wind corrodes the skin, burns through the retina.

Hands fumble with the lemonade, a towel, Saliva flecks appear. Lacy fingertips wave to others. Thoughts coruscate, with less frequency; all acts are designed to meet a living minimum — and this is known as relative peace.

Nor does the mind ripple, rub, or sweat. The garish sun batters the old, granular, on the shore. Tinctured blood sighs softly on its course. A mentholated handkerchief is always near at hand.

Blue of sky or sea, a sight of green — postcards unearth a toothless smile that echoes into late afternoon.

Names flap by.