Ghosts Don’t Go to the Beach
It’s not a place meant for séances,
the dunes too slippery for hauntings.
Wind already ethereal
in fronds and sea grasses.
The sand, a sterile energy field
of dissipating heat, and we know
how the dead despise chimes and chants—
the pure white note of redundancy,
the same the same the same
rote echo of saltwater grinding
the shore. All spackle and hum,
nothing static enough to possess. Yes, this
rearranging topography is already a reckoning
point between continuums, an edge
that roils and drifts
across an erasable tracery. Listen.
Even the occasional
egg-smooth hollows of shell
are cupping their own thin hisses.