Big Sur As 'Misstra Know-It-All'

It’s sad. It’s almost
sad what we shed
in the changing room.

The awe in it almost
with sadness. No more
traveling by night, car, jet
lag, or moonlight.

This ocean did once taste of home
if not temporary then deep, as if

I’d stepped out of the shirts of my family,
who always carry time with them.

I cling to them blindly. Coasts
being only where what’s walkable
stops,

not some ballad of hand
and slate. Beach only dumping
ground for the floatable.

So I don’t float.

So I never loved
my floatable ones. So
what. As if it brings
them back.

Who it's for knows who it's for.