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Poem	THE WIND stops, the wind begins. The wind says stop, begin. A sea shovel scrapes the sand floor. The shovel changes, the floor changes. The sandpipers, maybe they know. Maybe a three-pointed foot can tell. Maybe the fog moon they fly to, guesses. The sandpipers cheep “Here” and get away. Five of them fly and keep together flying. Night hair of some sea woman Curls on the sand when the sea leaves The salt tide without a good-by. Boxes on the beach are empty. Shake ’em and the nails loosen. They have been somewhere.
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