I keep sifting sand through my fingers, not feeling the grit of you in my palms. Did you skip out to sea like a stone, each kiss of the water a nix pulling you under, or are you always stretching out beside me, your shadow lapping against mine? The tide nestles up close to the shore, its corners tucked and turned under, in the shush and pulse of the waves, your voice is calling, me to you. __________________ We took our first trip of the Spring to Carkeek Park yesterday. Even though it was cloudy, it was still overwhelmingly pretty. One of my favorite poets always starts each of his books with a poem written to the reader. I guess that's my hope, too. That you (yes, YOU) will feel that I've been reading your diary and wrote this poem to spill your secrets. Or maybe you really are the "you" in my poem. Meanwhile, in prose land, I have just posted the next chapter of The Culling, and it involves . . . an octopus...