We walk an empty stretch of beach
kept secret by the locals, not residents
nor tourists either, suspended for a summer
between addresses, without a set of walls
to keep us in. No trinkets
here, no coconut drinks,
only a half-bottle of wine
warm as the sea whose faded green
is like the turquoise no longer found
in our old country’s veins.
On the far side of the cove, an abandoned shelter
lets go its roof one palm leaf at a time.
The hermit crabs are big as apples, and not afraid.
What we long for has no name
and we walk without destination, drinking deeply,
happy without knowing why. The breeze dies
and swells again in gusts like breath,
a conversation with the tide.