Sandpiper

 The roaring alongside he takes for granted,
and that every so often the world is bound to shake.

He runs, he runs to the south, finical, awkward,
in a state of controlled panic, a student of Blake.


The beach hisses like fat.
 On his left, a sheet
of interrupting water comes and goes
and glazes over his dark and brittle feet.

He runs, he runs straight through it, watching his toes.


--Watching, rather, the spaces of sand between them
where (no detail too small) the Atlantic drains
rapidly backwards and downwards.
 As he runs,
he stares at the dragging grains.


The world is a mist.
 And then the world is
minute and vast and clear.
 The tide
is higher or lower.
 He couldn't tell you which.

His beak is focussed; he is preoccupied,

looking for something, something, something.

Poor bird, he is obsessed!
The millions of grains are black, white, tan, and gray
mixed with quartz grains, rose and amethyst.

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