untitled beach poem
I promise I won’t write about the beach.
I won’t call them sea-kissed shores
and speak of all the love there,
how each night, the waves carve the sun
a tiny shrine, so when it comes up
each morning, there’s a new miracle,
always ephemeral, flattened by feet
and the next shake of the moon.
Can you believe the waters don’t dread
the recreation? Faith is an effort
in itself. I have said too much
now. I have broken my own rules
on renewal. Should I leap
to similar subjects, speak of all the ways
I’d rebuild for you, too, all the shades
of scarlet I’d paint the walls
if you said you liked red
and I knew you were headed home?