Winter at Carlsbad Beach, California

The tourists have fled after an onslaught of wind and fog. Kelp stretches in tangles, strangles the sand. Seagulls huddle outside a seaside condo. Behind a window, a woman sits at her glass table playing solitaire. The ocean is missing its surfers— it is its own sky, dark gray and heavy. A boy throws a stone at the water. To the south, a power plant sends yellow blooms through its tower. I smell burnt diesel and metal. A jellyfish has been deposited at the high tide line. Here is a body of clear rubber etched with blue and purple veins. This casualty requires no x-rays; I cup my left hand and dig a grave. A man with flexing pole pulls a fish from the shallows. The gold tail flaps onshore as furious as a puppy’s. He slides his blade through a brain drowning in air. Now there is blood on the sand and a man bent over a bucket. I genuflect at the edge of the continent.