The magic starts
where the road unwinds into space
like the final dive from a barstool
and the lighthouse throws its arms
past the quiet confetti of mainland.

What looks good in headlights
turns to dust under the sun.
Almost home, the car swallows the stripe.

The dipper handle points
to the end of land, where car lights fade
into spirit light,
a mass of wet granules that drop
mote-like to the sea:
black, gray, white.