Golden-gray haze off cliffs to bays,
houses line the hillside, rows
of jagged teeth, the sea's jaws.
I at its tide tongue, grasping shells
with smooth, pink insides,
their barnacled heart-walls
swirling, rising, closing in and
half buried in the sand just
as my feet sink, but lifted leave
no holes. All tracks washed by waves
or lost in wavy words.
Rip-tide devastated ideas
are bits of floating styrofoam.
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