The moon over the hook of beach
looked bleached out, a white grub
from under a rotting log.
Or it could be Halloween, intense
as annatto squeezed into
Mixing in the orange seemed
hours to a six year old, looking
for anything else to do.
Once a small whale stranded.
People were trying to pull it back
into the surf. Finally, they had
to truck the whale away and bury it.
Another time, a drowned sailor
washed up with the tide.
The grownups told us it was
a dead seal, but we knew better
by the size of the crowd.
Later, I heard he was black,
but I don’t know if that was so,
only what he must have looked like.
I can’t remember the war
much more than that. The margarine
has been premixed for years.
The moon is still equivocal