I went to a beach and found
a radio whose battery compartment was full of sand
besides a piece of sea glass.
Maybe there was another person
who slept there the night before
on a towel, black and blue striped,
sunning through the afternoon and
too in love with the sea
to be with anyone else.
Their radio played
a cassette for a bit,
play button depressed, and then
the tuner to see what was wrong
and right with everyone else inland
until the air falling away
to points cold and wet and lonelier,
cloud sized sighs and yawn saws,
pressed them gentle to their door.
The batteries were
beneath the waves by now,
chucked like stones perfect enough
to hold for a minute only, turn over, and release.
I had my own from a radio set in my bag.
I shook the black box, careful, and
plugged them in.
Nothing happened.
I sat in the sand
where my foot stumbled upon it and dug a little hole
so it could sit too and we talked for a while
about capacitors and
resistors and broken transistors
until the sun came up.
