Walls can talk but nature cannot. So I stay

here and take in the boats sketched across

the sea, the bridge beneath my feet, and the weeds: that bend to your will, in an ephemeral

genuflection, begging you to hold their hands.

Milky waters remain murky from the cursed

stain of poetry. The piecemeal docks above

a battalion of rocks lean against houses,

where it is sinful not to have a green light

oscillating. Scruffy silhouettes carved into

the night walk along the dwindling road that

brings us to her. Her. We named her Beth.

She is a statue without any signification.

It is an enigma how quickly her blue color

became copper. She sits alone at the bottom

of a see-saw, forsaken with no one to balance

out her weight. And so stays where she was

made. I can only hope she is okay with that.

I remove the twigs intruding on her esoteric

cul-de-sac, and we decide she is a memorial

to child-like time. We create our days with a fresh kill, like vigilantes engaged in organized

crime. Someday we will return to Beth, and our words will teeter euphoniously—like karaoke.