The sun pours long light down the beach in torrent
and the strand is wet. A man gestures and approaches me.
He is on bare foot and holding a pair of shoes in his right hand,
neatly dressed as if he stops here after a banquet
or something else. He dips his hands into his pockets
and brings out beautiful seashells he picks there,
to ask me what I think. And as I tell him they’re very fine,
a smile polished in the bright sunshine rolls over his face.
He turns and leaves. Later that evening in the room,
I picture the two of us, on this shore of unbridled marvels and slow time,
our words like those finer things people come here
and look for, but never find.
