Particulate detritus of eroded silica and shell
and other tiny broken bits of creature
make the sand upon whose reach stands
all the tan and swelling brawn of Stan. Behind
the frilly pink behind of Lil the grand reserve
of water in which all of life began ends
in the motion of a gentle spill: a lapping
edge of ocean. (Lil thanks God and Walmart
for her lotion.) But these innumerable
disparate configurations of the mineral
and animal, not to mention sexually desperate
display and fraught emotion in inexorable heat
amid the grinding and indifferent and protracted
mute implosion of geology eviscerating
or creating random sand and land beyond
and under Stan and Lilly’s feet – all muddle
up what there may once have been to teach.
Therefore we find no reason for the beach.
.
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