Come and Gone

"Ben Johnston, you know, the composer, his favorite drink was vodka, elderflower juice, and a dash of vermouth" said the woman behind the counter at the store with a British flag hanging outside, the store we only went into because we are discontented Americans. One woman wore a kilt, and the other, while not indulging our ignorance, was kind about it. 

The ocean shudders with me. Old men I wish I knew with white hair and strong jaws walk by one after another -- a succession of other people's fathers -- holding bulky cameras with lenses strong enough to capture the particulars of the day

which is so beautiful, I don't even mind that these men and their cameras do not belong to me. 

My coffee has become the temperature of the air 
around it and I can smell the smell of a restful sleep 
rising from my skin. 

Kelly is jumping rocks with the same camera all the old men have.
She is collecting things that she will later name and shape into a pattern of memory. 

Many people I know have become a space left in the air
a shimmering of dust and skin, a worn spot on the rug.

The sea, where the fishing boat crosses it, gashes. 

I measure the miles of water by the crossing scars
of ships come and gone.