When the tide goes out the first sound you hear
is struggle against ebb.
The second is sand beneath; that is
subtext of attrition, need to believe

beyond strand line's haul
of decaying weeds, marine bones
surrendered
past recognition of form,

something lasts
like the abraded shell, stripped
and broke of scalloped fineries;

that is final clarity of seeing
all nicks, chips, perfections
and potentials,

lay to rest the unadmitted conclusions
of drawn lines, and erosions
from those lines.