I sleep cold at low tide,
back to a naked beach
opening herself to the Pacific.
I own no Nook, cell phone, boat,
wear old jeans, rag coat,
sift trash, eat molded cheese,
ketchup packs from burger sacks,
fallen fruit off condo trees.
I text my name in water, on sand,
under a moonless sky, pee hate
through the graveyard gate
when headstones tug at my thighs.