Where will we walk / When the beach has gone / Pushed back into / some pickle balled court / or swimming pool / Undermined it slides / into the next wave break.

He stepped into / big shoes / and filled them well / Sean walked in them / until they fit / his own feet.

Sand
Clean white sand
warm in summer
rolling wet
hot bodies
fresh from swimming
in the Sound
Frozen white
salted  crunch
underfoot in winter
wind blasting
eye stinging
unforgiving bits of it
Sand obsessed Arthur
the wave caressed
pitch of dune
shaped by fetch
and depth
Rooted in beachgrass tendrils
entrapped in the
timber groins we built
along this stretch of beach
formed the fine and
delicate line
that kept

It is a good year for Mayflowers They are sprawling on the hill leading to the chicken coop and the shop

He grips the podium like the wooden wheel of a loaded cargo schooner comfortable yet firm as he steers us through another night

I remember Coo from boyhood summers with his large extended Italian family renting down the street from us

I see Gerry now, blue hooded sweatshirt, ball cap, blue pants. Rockafella, he calls me (and everybody else).

Shallow draft, a whisker between her keel and sandy flat, Softly she slides over a thousand, steamer holes, Eel grass tickles the sweet, clear grain, shaped to steer and keep this cat on course.

Jimmy always reminded me of Peter O’Toole charging through the desert on a camel Long lion mane flowing.

Before the daylight/hints its slow return/on death bed winter nights as/brutal gusts spit flakes/upon the sheets/