The wind has bullied me for two months straight, yes, ever since September. But my cold-blooded heart will forgive it all, because it blew out winter.
I have been a snake ever since, sunning myself on scalding sandstone, hissing my delight at passing feet, sweating out the winter toxins, easing off that outer layer of skin as pale as snow to slither gracefully into the new year like August never happened.
The Atlantic smashes itself to smithereens, drags all its wretched bits to the rocks and throws itself up as foam around my ankles.
Far out just before the sea and sky merge and deep below the surface the whole decon-reconstructive process
Starts again. An uncomfortable lump that swells and bursts and smashes and drags and vomits
and me, here. Nursing the invalid ocean through its numbing blues and nauseous hues because winter turns us all to haggard patients.
Hot chocolate in a paper cup in my hands. The salt in the air takes the edge of its sweetness; makeshift warmth in a storm. We are waiting for sun.
