black coat black hair
the lonely cliff. a mink runs among the rocks, swims, wipes itself a semblance of dry on a log. long ships kick up wind, abusing the harbour water, kicking waves higher against the shore. foghorns cut through the air like a bitten lip and echo back to sea. somewhere along the path a girl is singing; on the hill above there is drunken laughter despite the fact that it's only four o'clock. a man with dirty black hair sits beside me, lights a joint. "that you singing before?" that was me singing, i'm somewhere on a cliff. "maybe."
he starts to go. i rip the sketch out and hand it to him but he pushes it away, says he has no where to put it, i might as well keep it. i say, "thanks for the toke." he waves and leaves, black coat catching the wind behind him.
i wish he'd left me a joint.