Humans clothed in their own skin,

Bare for all to see,

Chasing plastic bags,

Turning towels to face the beams,

Like soft sun dials,

Who leap in the waves

And share salty kisses

As the foam breaks against

Their cooked leg meat;

Then return to dry in the grit

And the dust of the beach.

The eternal sand,

Found weeks, months, years

After the beach is forgotten,

In creases at the bottom of bags,

Dug out by finger nails searching

For some miscellaneous crap.


We must go back to the beach.



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