Up against a metronome wall, I pull out the net from the pier-side and catch nothing to bring home.
But the bay–pinks play with the blues and wave crests blossom like the snow caps back home, recede into black and transform again. Like home, I recall, but bitter, and cold year-round.
The spring in my heart loosens, and I beg for north in the night, but the ticking remains, in tempo, unamused.
Then the water beneath cradles all my foaming scars, since sealed over; but now, opened, with grinning faces and with all intention to make my skin a red canvas.
But the pinks play with the blues, and night stretches its arms, yawns, and gets dressed for work. My toes breach the pier’s end, and my empty net sings in time, my gut trembling a bass-line on empty, a simple marching tune.
I’ll hold my breath until I wash up on a Rhode Island shore, with no net and with ticking nowhere nearby.