arms extended, fingers outstretched,
the gray continental sky indifferent to my need for light;
Three years I paced the shore,
back and forth, tracing the break’s contour,
shifting, ephemeral, undulating;
On the beach on the sand that is my brain,
lets information like water, in,
pass through, then away, soaked;
Three years the troughs and crests and I
kept holding hands and letting go.
The other day I traced the shore at the bus stop.
Cigarette butts like flotsam lining the pavement.
I saw the sea foam in my mind.
I heard the rush and splash.
I felt the breeze in my hair.
at how it should have been all along.