New Jersey nights are cool
in July, stirring only as the soft sway of wealth
rustles flags up the beach.
I wait for the speckled stars to come out,
to collide with fluorescent white caps until
the snuffed splashes radiate

a new kind of restfulness, radiate
the sparkling slumber of billionaires cooling
in air-conditioned mansions until
they fleetingly forget their own wealth.
But for now, I’m the only one out
watching the flags rustle on the beach.

Since no one asked, this beach
has learned to radiate
their stand-out
lifestyles, learned to invite social climbers and rich kids trailing coolers,
ice cold like daddy’s heart. Wealth:
take them into the sand; let them bathe under the scrutiny of sunlight until

the gold begins to boil, until
everyone else on that beach
can see the wealth,
melt under the radiation
of his heedless heart, his cool
cautions to stay out

of his business in the Madagascar mines. Out
here, the reeds sway gently under moonlight, bend until
a wistful wind cools
this beach:
artificial as Gucci bags and Channel perfume, radiating
fragrancies of the wealth

that imported these pristine sands. Wealth
that stirs beneath a silent night, breaks out
on surfboards under the sun, radiates
in the knowing beige of peasants used. Until
the reeds grow so sporadic their stems clump the beach,
its sands shall ingrain that cool

cultivation of advantage, shall radiate
a backdrop of brilliance, bribery, and boarding by beaches.
But for now, the New Jersey night is still cool.