Alex Thomas


Look at all the beautiful
            horizons. She means
the dozens of sunsets slipping

in the windows, fractured
            gold on the living room floor.

like an ancient
              fire.  From beneath huddled
              sheets, we can hear the sea

              pushing itself upon the North
Carolina shore.  Thundering

softly within the evening.
A large gust of water rattles

            the dying sky peeking in
on the first Turtle night.


After dark they will move themselves
upon the land.  Through
            the waves and the sea air

and the starlight that has replaced
            the sun.  Leaving behind

offspring in holes that they have

the sand into ports.  Massive


creatures, the size of billiard tables,
built for water, but beaching

for the minutes
            necessary to continue life.  Then gone,

            swallowed by the same
waves that birthed them.  We

watch from the window as the bodies
            move as if the sand

itself has come alive.  No lights
            tonight; lamps and televisions
            will frighten

the Loggerhead and the Hawksbill
            and the giant Leatherback.


They travel in the dark, like aged
sailors.  Their backs a canvas

            of scars from sharks
and boat propellers and other

underwater demons.  The silent
            orchestra playing all along

this strip of sand on the very cliff
of the continent.  The morning


will reveal patches of disturbed
            land where their underbellies

found ground.  And fins moved
            through a terrain they were

not evolved for.  Tourists and scientists
gasping at the miracle.  And her and I

in bed together. Recreating
            it ourselves.


Alex Thomas is a journalist living in Washington DC where he writes about news and politics for He is quite obsessed with records, books, coffee and all things Seinfeld. You can find his poetry in Kentucky Review, Slipstream, Red Paint Hill, and elsewhere.