Do not confuse the beach with the event
that occurs when prevailing winds, water currents
grind primordial rock down into tiny and tinier bits,
right down to the molecular bits trapped between the
H two O and all the other little bits grinding into
littler bits; which explains sand and cosmogony.

Fountain of sand erupts from the deep,
carpets the shore, wrinkles, ripples, writes,
in time and lock step with the waves that grind
it into itself until it is only itself and thus sand
is one of the most transparent of elements—
did we not discover how to make glass
by building a fire on a beach? Does not know itself,
cannot rejoice in itself, will not read the inscription
it makes upon itself, waits for us to read what is written:
“each moment on the beach history repeats itself.”

There is no beach that is only sand and surf
at the edge of a great body of water; that is
a silent event waiting for us to find it, to shout
aloud the words written by its roaring voice.
It must be performed upon by the actors of the world—
the lines wait there, patiently, for the players to read.
Scripted, conceived, in itself mute, the beach awaits us,
prompts us to sing, to read what is written at our feet.