Past dark jetties fingering the shore,
farther than low tide, beyond breakers,
the pier reaches into the sea.
Like molten steel, the swells sweep past,
glimpses hang within a flow of gauze
like shadows behind a flimsy drape.
Fishermen frame the edges of the pier
casting lines unseen till the white splash.
A blue crab, her pincers open, shakes
free - she seems a dropped sun sinking
with her orange egg sack going deeper

While caught fish splash themselves frantic,
a the guitar's soft chords of lost love floats,
strumming around coolers of beer and Coke.
My cousin and I skitter like sandpipers
barefoot among hooks and scaling knives,
We roam the fringes, smelling whiskey,
slyly pleased when lines reel in empty,
watch couples with their secret touches,
dream our dreams of love and fancy.

Conversations blur in the wind, and
the pier is afloat with drifting dreams,
like the fishermen and tides, always leaving
but like the pier and sea, always there.