Indian Summer or coldluck
strawberry winebottle and the rolling waves
the rolling laughter,
the gulls,
and the gals
are wearing blue
are wearing sequins,
with eyes like the bonfires

towers and castles burning
this is love, and it’s built of sand

toe rubbed
against toe,
cigarette butt still passing

the slightest, palest blue elbowing
up the blinds,
a far dull cry

the colour of rabid wind on all
faces,
the hologram of a hollow on every chest,
and a slight kick
that tells the sand,
October.