from Wideawake Field

Pennant
by Eliza Griswold


Love was the illusion,
the tent on the beach
with an ivory peak
that said you're never alone.
The tent is gone.
It takes you days to notice.
No pennant sings from the hill,
no slip of bright everlasting
pretends to be home.  The last night comes.
The bald dunes sleep.   The pilot fish leap
to bare their glistening skin.