The dirty sand everyone said was beautiful
wasn’t—it was dirty, or oily,
something turning it to hardness.
It was ugly when we were told
beautiful, shattering when it was
supposed to make us whole, cold
when it should have been warm
and all of us dressed in wrong clothes
because everything was wrong.
We walked the beach early,
lay down in the sand, and tried to sleep
there in the dune hardly a dune it was so low,
but away from the wind—
The locals told us not much ever
washes up on the beach.
How cold it got down by the water.
The water was cold.
The windsurfer wore a wet suit and sailed
back and forth like the birds.
Site is from Into Perfect Spheres Such Holes Are Pierced (Alice James Books, 2004).