The Beach
We are running out of breath in the rush
to avoid our fate, avoid ourselves,
make a new fate, make ourselves anew.
We are at the beachhead and the waves
are boiling in like playful, malicious giants.
The beach is on borrowed time
and we are young in the body
but old, even ancient, in the cosmos.
We hold hands, but
our expiration date is stamped
in the cold darkness of our eyes.
We abandon the beach.,,
make it at least to the headland
that’s high and cold and stark,
and it’s misty with the spray of the giants.
The sun is setting, massively red
as it sinks into the ruler-straight horizon.
Night has come the beach has gone
darkness settles a restless dog,
the giants still roar with devouring anger.
We are old, time is counted in moments.
The headland takes its last hurrah
to the giants waving to us from the sea
and collapses into the great curtailing Sargasso.
We hold hands as we fall.
