Route 1

Little boy following his dad out onto the pier singing, “I’m going fishing, I’m going fishing, I’m going fishing with my daddy,” is my birthday song.

Wake in a moist moist spot on top of shells and sea weed and rock, flies buzzing. Wake in the green so green. Wake in the car to the sun being out. 23 years ago I was born on this day.

Black waves shovel garbage onto a dirty block of beach and dead geese and dead fish are piled high. I lay on the pile; I lay here, resigned to be at home in seaweed, not caring that my face has turned to slime and my legs to moss and my hands to black sand.

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