Never Mind the Beasts

There’s a he and a she separated
by slender wood: engraved and
bitten into.
One broken flip-flop clops
along the wooden floor.
Each footfall sinks
into sand. A final
whistle cuts
the air as each
memory chugs
away on forgotten
tracks. Romantic
rubbish is stuffed
into recycle bins.
To have been is to be
carried away and pushed
open by the lidless.
I must mind
my memories, mine
the dark ripples.
The meat
of the body eats
itself.