So we find ourselves washing ashore.
The weight of distance,
the parsing of echoes through
a history.

Brush off the silt of prior pages they said.

Tide rising in a froth
of thrusts.

Poor shoreline. Poor water.

0r moon you say.
Tilt. The crooked smile
a thousand miles wide.

Even now the sojourners with
their drenched boots and
desperate umbrellas.

What then such unforgiving
in a mist of mirage.

Yesterday the building of sand castles,
mute pebbles keeping
their secrets.

Where then a calculus by which to count.

Goodbye, goodbye they sang
through the spume.

The rain. The spatterings
of a destiny unsober
written somewhere.