seaward with the rivulets; seaside with heavy rippled sand,
empty in winter, scarce, so much so I form new paths
freely, sighthound astounding, bounding for his bouncy ball—

if I don’t see you in paradise, now reminds me of margate:
touching the sea, cold, to feel alive— I’d like to say
it’s been quite some time since I’ve cried, but it’d be a lie,

five pound haddock and chip special, away from gulls, stalking.