Carnies The dark was coming on When we reached our destination, The sweep of beach where even Close on dusk the streaming Wetsuits of the surf school Pulsed like beacons in the swell. On the rise above the sand Caravans and a skeleton Of the Big Top laid out on sawdust, Guy ropes being raised by types As leathery as the old bank managers Forever walking on the tideline. The performers were making up In shadow play in backlit caravans, As low tide became a line Of phosphorescence, cigarettes flickering In the dunes, murmurs from the shapes Of hoodies, just…