We sat on the beach tracing colors
of a sunset that would make poets of us all.
She thinks I’m a failed sentimentalist
swimming through snapshots of yesterday
as memories stretch thinner then molt —
sink — settle at the bottom of the sea. I can’t hold
my breath as well as I did that night
the waves sang an opera in shells flat under
the weight of the world. Moments that pool
together in murky water will stir up
a seabed. She saw the face of god
in a cloud but I’m hazier tonight.
© 2022 | Phillip Knight Scott