Dusk and
the beach collide,
a lonely helmet —
with a human inside —
sits in the duny sand.

Brows salted,
eyes to the farness,
to the equipoise where
desire sinks in darkness
and the sea sings names.

He’s still.
Time does not speak.
Only the wind’s hush.
Only the bushy peak
covers the pulsing rush.

Hoping — a voice,
a glow in a kitchen window,
a shine behind lace.
The when is a ghost —
no face, no grace.

He senses a brooch,
and his breath becomes
her name —
Madelaine,
carried within
by sea foam in the rain.