The beach was splendid without anyone touching
in the dark spaces of dunes, without
brown bottles broken in the coals of old fires,
without the dog unhooked from leather leash heaving
himself at the frisbee with the chewed edge.
When I was the only body in which the wind
could warm itself cold with sea,
when my tears were the only other water
but for blood -- in the sand fleas, in the lonesome gull,
when yellow foam crackled at the thin hem of the sea
I was the only one in cotton, the only one
standing among strewn and sanded wood,
not sharing this space with anyone with a camera,
no volleyball, no blanket, towel or sunscreen bottle leaking.
I was the body, large enough to remain unfilled,
my eyes taking in what daylight offered --
sea, shore, single sand grain the wind bore high,
and I filled myself continuously, building
with these materials the small version of everything.
And the sand held my feet and stone sand and burning stone
cold stone. All below burning and shifting and standing
kept me steady where I was, my clothes blowing,
my hands open, spread to catch and let slip
what crept to me, what flew by, what sang or screamed,
the ocean bending near and forward falling.
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