Gene Wilder

I had a dream Gene Wilder was my friend and he died the next day. We went to the beach.
“I hate getting sand in my ass,” Gene says.
The back of my next sweats and a sand flea bites my calf, but I don’t respond. I just stare at the horizon, seagulls flying in and out until the sun sets and we watch the tide roll in. In the morning of my dream, I wander the beach alone, playing on rocks and in tide pools and finding small creatures that seem like magic dying in the hot, bright sun.