Vanishing Point

I go down to the sea in my traveler cloud,
wrapped in Dorado, searching out an early Southern sky.
We are alone, the dogs and me (but for a surly barista
with tattoo sleeves; she cuts us off en route to Starbucks
in her ten-mile thunder shoes.)

Galahad sleeps off errant nights, limbs aching poetry.
He will wake to raucous seaside commerce,
rabid howlers baring teeth against businessmen
and those regrettable slaughter suits,

but I keep morning to myself: snapping ghost portraits
of palace code-breakers, moving like mist among the idle,
recording émigrés who sling their brotherhood with heavy hands.

The dogs race ahead, noses to wind, narrowed gazes
on a visible horizon, escape routes in the offing.
Persistent waves erase all evidence of trespass
as we listen, eyes trained on the vanishing point.

Galahad calls it the point of no return, but doesn't believe it.
I do, but I leave it, half-born in the slipper light.