Winter spills into Bridgehampton
silently, as the Teslas do.
A snowy inch appears, disappears,
on the hungry road—tar with arbitrary
appetites to slurp it in the bleached sunlight,
sometimes before the plows
can roll down Montauk Highway.
Citarella is sold out of dried rosemary
but the aisles are lined with Birkin bags
plotting tablescapes, urging strollers
across the speckled grey floor.
The women crest like white caps
in Great Peconic Bay,
moving through the produce
with storms in their fingertips.
