Beacons burned bright by bayside;
alarmed, you bent and snuffed me out.
Smoke signals my resignation.
Believe me, I'm in here.
Forgive me my pidgin feeling.
Forgive me.
And should no phoneme suffice,
fly not forfeit's flag on the promenade
but fly flag in hand,
gnarled from a lifetime's shakes,
and propose me in semaphore
a cipher to span our fault;
my fault.
Echoless in vaulted fissure,
a futile fugue in deafened solfege;
and as I fail and fall asleep,
forgive me my pidgin feeling.