THE KINDS OF THINGS
TO NOT BELIEVE IN
(sandy hook, nj)
Crawling forth from the sandy smudge, some new
sea-creature is calling my name. He says 'Sandor' three
times over. I call back and say 'I am a fiddler crab?' and
then I say, 'I am a horsehoe crab?' On the distant line
of the horizon (which my father used to say was always
seven miles ahead at sea), I glimpse a small yellow ship,
which I know instead is large. Tankers float their ways
along these waters, headed out. This is the famed
Narrows. This is something else.
-
I am stranded on Sandy Hook. My car is gone,
my bicycle stolen, and the jetty has run off with
my boat. Only a seaside cove such as this can
hide all my arms and ammunition. Dotting
the sands, here and there on the abandoned
fort fields, are missles aimed at the sky.
-
The naked beach here, Gunnison, has always called
me. I get here four or five times a year. To peddle my
wares before they're over; to watch the pigheads play
their volleyball. A tournament worth watching -
naked bodies in stressful cavorting, like missles
and pillows no longer touching the sky.
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