Puppet Show

Around a campfire

they were

slumped like stringless puppets.

There was

nothing important left to say

(tide coming in,

sand cooling,

moths retreating).

Ghost flames

shiver on a starry sea.

Tomorrow in ashes

they write sandy words for

another hungry tide.

It's a someday afternoon:

phosphorescence holds its glow for evening,

charcoal paints sand.

Dune grass chitters.

Re-strung puppets

breathein

breatheout,

but

not in a hurry.