I.D.'s (fragment) 

What matters is just that it’s somehow right

the chance to be a component, to belong

to a company, a collection. People

who get changed between the low hedges

and the barbed wire at the dune’s edge.


Playing cards fall on a towel in the sand,

provisions under cloths in a wicker basket,

a dug-in bottle from the distillery

where one of us has worked that day.

We run like everyone else to the sea


and back again, tap sand from shoes on the footpath,

embrace what’s left out in every conversation

when we part and know we’re desolate when

the driver of a tram calls out his stops

to the solitary passenger.