When the tide is low
A petting zoo of sorts appears
But I’m too lost in a cavalcade of bewilderment to care
And as the setting sun becomes a revolving space station
And the stars appear as if all day long they had been stuffed in a piñata
Then with a delicacy that will soon fade and fizzle out
I hug the shoreline of these typed words
And head home where a tea kettle is boiling
To spend the night nodding in front of my hearth.