Margen
First, shake the sand from the sheets the way you'd send off a small animal.
Cover the furniture with cotton ghosts. Empty the fridge of its last light.
Leave the shells on the windowsill: they are the sea's loose change, and what the sea has paid stays here.
Close the shutters slowly, slat by slat, until the house learns to sleep in the dark.
Turn the key twice. Once for the door. Once for August.
And don't look back: the person we were this summer stays inside, barefoot, saving our place.