When, cold with sea,
my tears the only other salt wet,
the wind to my mouth came, its only place to warm,
when, crackling yellow foam,
the surf tore among black kelp heads,
then tugged back to mend,
when, between washes, sand flea burrows
bubbled open, and, carried over them,
not even a gull cut the white noise with her wry blade,
when no dog unhooked from leather leash
heaved himself at the frisbee with the chewed edge,
when no towel unfolded,
when, in the dark spaces of dunes
no one turned to touch, and there were grasses
sliding merely against grasses,
when, brown bottles broken in the coals,
the old fires’ only motions in log-hid holes
were the falling-in of new sand, I
stretched out my arms,
the one standing in stiff cotton, in hard shoes,
no striped umbrella opened, no sunscreen bottle leaking,
was shore,
wide, white, water, sand,
blown through, all the long way through.
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