The sad, slow-moving shape of a sailboat
Traces the horizon line. Voices lost
In the wave-chorus. Shape of the line-up
Echoes the reef: Wetsuitted surfers sit
In rock patterns, pushing at the ocean.
A brave little sandpiper scouts around
The tourists’ feet, legs moving faster
Than the eye can follow—--if it cared
To follow. The January sun turns waves
To pewter as the tide turns, returns;
Somewhere, the moon waxes while the gulls’
Shadows slide effortlessly over the sand.
Knowing that it’s an illusion doesn’t
Make the horizon line less real—-Here,
Where the ocean may pitch up white and slap
The shore, there it begins, where an indifferent-
Colored sky meets a tangible blue: That
Line is a surface. Reach out your hand, meet
A place at its conclusion. Debris left
Behind: A feather. A rock. A sand-brown leaf.
The space in sound just after the line breaks
And a new one is begun. . .