Artificial fireflies flicker, a stone's throw away As darkness coats the coast in indigo Defiantly restrained, I call out. No response. The ghost of St Helena hides silently in her stone Covered in thrift store rags Too busy to re-visit any unhinged doors As a cigarette burns alone in the woods Cypress knees emerge from the swamp One balancing a leaf The other cradling gravel, crumbling I sit, listening for a break in the silence. As fading catchlights retreat down one-way streets Knowing all I want for dinner is candy Instead, a cyclone rolls in from the tropics Threatening to extinguish any fire that remains Yeilding the leaves flooded and suffocating with regret Refusing to admit my inspiration lies dead and decaying on these eroding, tree fallen shores The gray man of Pawleys reveals himself in the storm While the ghost of St Helena hides silently in her stone.

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