lead her to the edge of the ocean,
a dividing line of high tide
from the unencumbered sand,
then another line, where the surf
had broken and left a loamy trace
of white. She drew her toe
through the lacy imprint,
where water had traced
proof of existence as pretty
as doily. A small wave
came, a remnant of
something reducing
and reducing like a number
dividing into infinity.
It reached for the sand, the
fold of a transparent sail trying
to snare the slightest wind.
It removed the mark she left,
erasing the small valley that
sought to prove she was there,
on that small expanse of sand.
A shell caught in the intake of
the ocean and rolled ridiculously
back toward the water. How many
times had it been carried to the land,
then to the sea, falling over itself
in the rise and fall of tides until
its outside was smooth like a
layer of curved glass? She
said, that is a pretty one,
then let the sea take it.
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