monument


half drunk along the empty beach,
each staggered footstep softly sinks
into the rich, retired white sands of st. petersburg:
too scared to glance up
at millions of tiny diamond-eyes staring,
too awed to watch the sea,
each wave rumbling,
spilling on the shore like a beer,
but smiling between cool breezes
thinking of that one spot
by the dead fish back there
where i'd stopped,
and chained a red throbbing memory
to the sand.

© Mark E. Dougherty