Our hour upon the sand

 

            I turned seeing the flat

            Wave darkening the brush

            And trees.  Was it rushing

            Toward us or silently

            Waiting ‘till we looked

            Away to crush our

            Simplistic pleasantness?

            An hour upon

            The sand passed.  We

            Passed into the next –

            A dried bone taken up

            With little left to rend

            But there is always

            Someone to try.

            The blood is well hidden

            And deep; whether beneath

            The leaves we crush

            Or tilting in us.

            Listen to our bleeding:

            The wind and whatever else

            Is sweeping us away.