That you can see stingrays skate
In ever-evolving outlines
Is where the mind stings in inability
To capture what the shape of this—this plastic bag,
This sand-sunken stone, this flaccid pancake, this water-logged kite, this polygonal magpie, this forgotten balloon—thing really is.
Where the waves spread shallow enough
That they wash around your form
In beckoning clouds
Is where you imprint yourself in the sand and piercing shell,
Back turned against beach chairs and coral towels and hotel windows
And sit in eye-widening, mouth-quivering awe of the stretching divide of sky and sea and scent
Of salt in the wound of this gaping expanse of world.
And rays of yellow—no white—no pink—prickle at the edges of your gaze.
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