November 1^st 

inappropriately dressed in sequinned

leggings and cheap, dainty shoes, I roam

Brighton beach in gale-force winds:

one half of my head and neck are wet

where the rain crackles on my hood

like dried wood newly set alight, and

my lips taste salty-sweet with mingled

sea-spray and stage-blood from

last night’s antics as a zombie cat, but

all discomfort flees before this evacuating

wind and I am no longer physical –

I am a spirit who crawled through

when the veils were thin, who is so

happy to be here that even in this

earthly weather she cavorts on the shore

like a kite, howling at the rowdy waves.