At low tide, sandpipers pull
mollusks from the shell,
leave behind each cracked, hollow world
for us to find, hieroglyphed and pearled.
In the tidal surge, bottles, floats,
and bags catch in mangrove roots,
the city hovers in haze.
An ecstasy rises:
Could I cast off the life we made?
Once on this same beach I found
a green globe, tiny as a bead,
fluid-filled, translucent in my hand,
too fragile to last.
I wanted to taste
its briny pleasure–spread
my skin with mystery–
synecdoche of sky or sea?
I tossed it to the sweeping tide.
Birds fall hungry again. They feed
where tongues of foam lap shell and rock.
I’ve stayed out longer than I planned.
But I don’t mean to turn back–
I’ll walk until I’m worn to sand.