boy who smiles
going eighty.
way a corner
of his mouth wavers
before settling. pulls
upwards. how-arr-ya
he asks. boy
from the all-grey
café. way his cheek
is a dune between
road and water.
way his iris rolls
like sea. when I drive
down cape I hope
to see him. never
touching eighty.
when he strokes
my cheek I take
his finger in a wave.
there is no speed
where falling into him
does not sting. there is
no speed where I do not
beach myself, where his
sandy mouth does not
swallow me whole.