So you're leaving this evening of August

in the silence succeeding sunset,

with the ocean spread open before us 

and our skin superficially wet

from the splutters of sea which come splashing

on this sand which we briefly impress;

in the twilight the first star is flashing,

is it sending out signs of distress?

And is the day drowning or waving?

Has the night come to smooth or to smother?

August evening, my mind misbehaving,

I guess it takes time to recover;

from out of the blue which we bathe in

surface thoughts on the corpse of a lover.