Somewhere along a cape, old war scientists are building an angel
to pierce the atmosphere. Somewhere the beach sand is turning
into glass—like coke bottles. Young boys have come to the sunny
shore to construct sand castles and light their piccolo-petes,
bottle-rockets and roman candles—even though there is no national
holiday today. The old men have rolled
up their pant legs and step on the lip of the sea. They laugh like gold
doubloons lost in a Sargasso storm. They do not think the sun is too bright
anymore—they think they’ve seen brighter stars.