Now listen to me good. To be dreaming
of the cove, the light pink cottage
that was always on the edge. This being the year

my jeans fell from my frame. You said I was closer to God
but he wouldn’t concur. Weeds

grew up on bales of clean white salt. All summer
everyone wondered

where I lived, watched the carpenter ants on the rocks.
When I wasn’t in my body, I was dead. Cops

circled, paraphernalia swirled
inside my lonely purse.

There was nothing to do but wait.
Contraband, will you
turn to silk again? Tilt his white, Atlantic
throat up

to the shy-eyed puffins?