for typewriters made the news again today.

Salt discovered on your upper lip when

leaning in for a kiss I tasted what’s left

of morning’s walk on the beach of our shared

history. The fog rolling in even as

tide rolls out. “It’s not your fault,” you say, to

what I can’t remember, distracted by

un-ironic wearers of bucket hats,

hiding their heads and smartphones under towels

to escape summer’s glare. I don’t know, I

think now; I bought a black suit, then everyone

around me started dying. I stare

at my reflection in the hotel room

mirror behind which clipboard holders take

glum note of every breath. It’s an old show.