Lightning and thunder reassert themselves in

static blinding booms. Boom. 

Storm shorts out the grid, so together we 

hunt for batteries. 

 

In the sudden blackness, I scour and squint 

until you become a soundwave streak of yellow 

twitching unlike an insulated wire. Jagged nerve. Warm.

 

Salt crust spills from our cheap, plastic shelves and

our coastal souvenirs shatter and the wallpapers creak

and our sun bleached postcards wither 

and the floorboards whimper as shale and kelp and

seashells and dried salt scratch at it addictively.

 

I stumble. Boom. And flinch. Look. A real wreckage.

 

I wonder if it will ever be quiet. But, you know

what I am sick of — your / your / your / 

low-tide apparitions and apprehensive sea retreats. 

So, once August finally comes around again, 

 

at least make your hand a fist when you hit me. 

Our quicksand love—mire—muddy undertow is not fearless. 

So, come on, come on, erode me.

Be a real entropic beast and don’t satisfy yourself 

by lingering like some low voltage current. 

 

Trace my imperfect silver shame with your lips

until I am renewed gold until you remember precisely 

where home is.