Written by: Geoffery McHugh

Majestic sparkles dot the salty sky like Cubic zirconia.

That would be the wet sky on your left...
no, dear child, your other left...
yeah-yes, that's the one, 
The one placed just below the real Mccoy, 
the one with creaking dock adorned with cracking paint poised over it,
the one reflecting a not-quite mirror image of the moon-soaked sky.

deflated water wings float like sagging buoys upon the swells,
and boats with names like, 'We shall rise again'(spelled in star and bar confederate styling) 
'Hardy Har Hardon' are moored nearby, gently rocking to and fro- or port and starboard if 
you fancy. 

We had tied a steel belted radial to a piece of rope earlier, 
when the sun still lit upon both skies.
We hung it from a flowering branch, it was utilitarian, for all to use and enjoy. 
I think it was Dunlop, but for all itents and purposes, 
I suppose it hardly matters. 

Now swinging in the breath of luna, 
that tire hosts a southern bell(e), and an unscrupulous man cradling her in his muscled arms.

It is not a warm Georgia night,
but it isn't cold either,
and seasonable though it may be, 
prickles still dot the bare flesh there, 
I swear, 
there were more goosepimples than there were stars, 
and arithmetic has nothing to do with it.