by Lauren Camp

The hours between York and Kennebunk, between
                          Boston and Salem, and too

between Danvers and Logan

thin words perch:   lost   close   coax   worn

The sun is relentless.
The day’s elastic wears out

and blue haze granulates.
There isn’t a gate
                           or a fence at that corner
and now I’m watching my father watching

a kite on the beach
where the Atlantic cashes

                                       into the stones.
              I will only forget what I want

to remember;
the hair on his chin and the slight hook

of his nose, his eyes most
                                      alive as they reach the sky.