Mornings I drive to the ocean. Just to look, before work. I sign over the seaside chapel and bright flares of birds. Dogs go gnawing their legs all round. They are none to me. I force my entire face down to view. Green appears, part of the weeds move and some grass falls over. A few trees take place along the bay. I can’t talk. I watch boats honking to and fro for no reason I can see. To honk all day, like flies, and be done. I should have worn a sweater. The sand is chill now and wind fills my linen shirt like fat. Driving back about the hills and the shadows of hills, they appear like a calendar. I’m thinking nothing comes from this. We are like enemies if we are quiet. I drive. If I am a black piece against the sky, a wire.