We share an apple on the point.
I carve Swiss Army slices while
angry waves gnaw the shore.
Wedges pinched between thumb
and blade. She munches idly,
toeing spiders in the sand.
The breeze holds all the rage of the
Atlantic. Traces of gunpowder
flare my history-tickled nostrils.
Beside us children in period dress
chase geese. Above is a sky
that has forgotten how to laugh.