If fruit could represent anything but sex I would be content to transcribe still-lifes, glad to stack sand castles from the grit of memory as Jaws trolls just offshore—which I do— but the slick-skinned, the bulbous, the juicy bits of ovarian flesh turn me to you, always a you of some denomination; you and this. You and this and you and here and once. Waves a warm ebb on the floe of consciousness when blankets bunch at the feet and ears of the world which is nothing but creaks and ticks. These can just be spheres, beach balls, can't they? You don't have to pass the grape from lip to lip in a kiss reminiscent of just-sipped chardonnay. The sign could have been just a warning like so many: stop, dead end—but no: you waved arms overhead, loud laughter a riptide yanking me further out to sea. lol No Lifeguard. (Who needs a mime when you have a meme?) If you see someone drowning call 9-1-1—help. These memories don't line up. One's a Phillips and the other's metric. A baby beta cassette. You've slipped from the film's flipping frames and your face is soft-focus in the cover image. The buoy's gone. I recall a buoy. Even the wispy unspools of tape have melted together like Neapolitan ice cream left out. A mess of puce. A huge bowl of bitter raisins. Hey you— remember that one thing? That happened that time... You should, you're an amalgamation. Sometimes it takes a cryptomnesiac to work the puzzle's first jigsaw path. Yeah, it's a raisin, but fuck if they can't be sweet, if grapes don't wizen and sour on the vine unpicked. Even the perfect sunflower seed's kernel is sometimes hard and dark and tastes of ants. Shells are just shells. Hell—forget the sand castle. Keep laughing. Drag me down the beach in the dark— we molting teenagers. Shed clothes trailing off the shores of Amity Island. This movie's about you. You, everyone that you are. It's just night. It's just a little skin, a little water, a little more. Please.