Flotsam was spewn along the beach as if from a vessel sunk in the prime of its life.
I reaped an image here, the specter of a voice there, hauling them up the cliff's steep
path to the driftwood shack's ravenous stove.

Summer by the ocean felt
like winter anywhere else.

Last night I dreamed of meeting an old friend. But, John (which
is his name) I said, you died. I cured myself, he echoed through
a lopsiided grin.

Balancing between worlds, we snatch jetsamed memories, while
nature never really was separate from human society; it appeared un-
touched only to those who did not know, or did not want to to know,
how much
whatever myth is in play includes a journey "shrouded
in mist and cloud."

When I entered the Place of Stories I heard: The birth you don't re-
member, is the death you won't forget.