Beauty’s too easy
when routine
bites

hard;
the ocean’s
a fucking bore.

Where’s that
Winterlike
light

when
it’s wanted,
light promising

only

snow.

–

No
reason
but in echoes,

bottles
on the floor.

Those
are sirens
behind me.

And it’s
like you said —
would’ve
turned
up

dead
in a car.