Ghosts of Instagram

1 August 2018

The sky is already curating stars and the unseen
creatures are crawling out of their burrows and
into my ears by the time the sea confronts me.

My friends complain I’ve been far for
too long but still the tug of return is too easy to ignore.
I sit and watch the light depart from the Adriatic

as it does from my grandmother. Thirteen thousand
kilometres is a bit much (isn’t it?) to go watch
someone die. She would love this coastline though,

something about the ocean exhaling waves onto the sand
always brought her a smile. Frail Proust tells me people don’t die
all at once, but it’s like they’re travelling abroad.

Well the dead don’t clog up my Instagram with
obnoxious photos of old buildings or their beach bodies.
Though maybe I’d prefer it if they did and Nana

could soon post a pic with lips puckered while wearing
oversized sunglasses and an ancient monument behind her.
And then she can take a selfie with Grandad so he can say hi too.

Last minute plane tickets really are expensive. When did
the water become so dark that it disappeared into the sky?
I’m disappointed that the ocean isn’t reflecting stars,

that would’ve looked good on my grid.

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