She defrosts
her freezer
in the middle

of every third
lunar cycle. Hears
a man

at another table
mention shell game.
All she wants

to find beneath
is a trail in the sand
the original

dweller left
behind. Pretends
she’s just fine

through the other
two cycles

when inside
bearing walls
close in.

Others begin
to sway. Unstabilized
bookcases shake

loose thin books.
Poems appear
to leap

to their demise.
Words scatter.
Some flee

under door
sweeps. Others
slice window screens

to escape. As evening
creeps in sooner, longer

toward the autumnal
equinox, she longs
for the bravado

of no regrets
beneath a thunder moon.