one minor
one too many cocktails
enough rumors

to match each one
end to end

she thought she was
the lucky one
on your mind

after hours
how could she know

your footprints
in the sand

like so many
coupling then uncoupling
pairs of plastic bottles

left on the beach
at low tide
to float out to sea

to disturb
the balance
of life

no matter how you spin it
slips of paper passed
hand to hand

do they do it
that way anymore

she thought those lemon wedges
perched on the lips
of highball glasses

meant you would survive
the black magic spells
cast over your heads

you would wiggle
through gaps
in the net

to land on kelp beds
positioned perfectly
to cushion your fall

how could she know
you would use your Bowie knife
to cut the flax grid

everything below

a sandbar scuffle
in the Mississippi not Atlantic
to blame

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