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.
