Tyler King
Untitled

At the place where the power lines end,
the energy has nowhere left to jump,
so it buries itself in the dunes.
The sand sinks like an hourglass
but the last grain never falls
at the place where the power lines end.

Couples dressed in their Sunday best
(his pipe pressed between his lips,
her skirt blowing in the wind)
search here, sifting through sand,
combing the ground for lost time,
or lost love, or perhaps a lost child.
Because this is also a place to find lost things,
at the place where the power lines end.

Their fingers do not clasp something lost,
but instead meet a belch of light,
showering them in sepia for just a second,
until they brush the sand from their eyes.
Then, of course, everything is black and white again,
at the place where the power lines end.