The sad, slow-moving shape of a sailboat
traces the horizon line with a mast tip.
Voices lost in the wave-chorus. Shape
of the line-up mimics the brakewater:
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 unreal—Here, where the ocean
may pitch up white and slap the shore,
begins there, where an indifferent-
colored sky meets a tangible blue sea: That
line is a surface. Reach out your hand: meet
that place at its conclusion. Debris sent
ahead: A feather. A rock. A sand-brown leaf.
The space in sound just after the line
and a new one is begun