The password is: talk to each other.
The porch is called The Porch.
The beach is wide and flat as your

memories of running. A street cleaner
sings a prayer to the day before bending
to pick a cigarette butt from the sand.

Between root and palm, between sun
and sky, the dry in your mouth
and the bitterness of coffee, there are

no lines. The man beside you peels
and eats a full hand of bananas, one
after another signaling the apocalypse

is near. The full moon rises opposite
the full sun. They face each other as if
they have faces, as if any of us do:

a dog sleeping in its stroller; a child
skinny as a mandolin screaming like
a foot on hot blacktop. A mandolin

fabricated from a cigar box sells for
$9.95. You take what the street offers
and puzzle it together.You keep

moving because the shore will never
swim to you. Waking, you miss
the moment of waking: fat tires

coasting, egrets erupting. A tug-
boat tugging nothing, pausing as a draw
bridge draws itself up like a cobra.