The Point

here in the northeast edged by the atlantic

a summer town in winter is a ghost that can break your heart.

the stop lights set to flashing ‘til april,

you stop to pick up beer at a liquor store you have never seen empty.

driving out to the Point, heat blasting, car covered in road salt,

down dark streets past dark houses

to a noisy carousel beach cottage, outlier, upstart,

despite the proximity of loss and punishing wind, fragile dunes,

the inevitable ocean.