Up North, I can never remember
what sea tastes like. See: memory,
see: Ferris wheel-covered boardwalk.
The drive down 75—Chattanooga, Kissimmee,
Fort Lauderdale; the waves full of worn
vowels, whale bones. The far-cry
of gull, the dark on dark sound of landscape,
scattering of heron. Everything
falling, everything shore and flesh.
"I think it is all a matter of love; the more you love a memory the stronger and stranger it becomes" —Vladimir Nabokov