Beyond a tongue of dried sand, towards
a sea that licks its traces, we cross the wash.
A nether world, it aches with its quick, its own.
See, you say; and there they skitter and sink
as we skirt rivulets and pools, piles
of seaweed, the casual dead, castaways.
Our steady steps press and fill and fade,
the littoral alive, brief as tides
and as constant, amidst the stink and brew of leavings.
What to make of this? A meal, a home,
a living—opportunity in flux:
necessary change, that charge of life.
Squat to this hand-sized star, lift
its particulars and place, constellated.
So.