Elegy for an iPhone

You slipped mid-swing. He pitched (mistake)

you far, out, straight out, into the dark.

You spun (i think) then skimmed (i swear),

twice, over those waves, much further

than those stones (ironic) we threw.

‘Skim this’, was the joke,

passing you, to him.

It’s funnier

now.

Do you see the shells of other thrown things

down there?

Do you taste from a sea-picked buffet, the soles and tongues of boots, the crisp rust of aluminium cans, the dying braids of rope?

Do fish wink?

Did you echo in the deep, that night,

when my parents called?

Did you answer?

I didn’t.