untitled beach poem

I promise I won’t write about the beach.

I won’t call them sea-kissed shores

and speak of all the love there,

how each night, the waves carve the sun

a tiny shrine, so when it comes up

each morning, there’s a new miracle,

always ephemeral, flattened by feet

and the next shake of the moon.

Can you believe the waters don’t dread

the recreation? Faith is an effort

in itself. I have said too much

now. I have broken my own rules

on renewal. Should I leap

to similar subjects, speak of all the ways

I’d rebuild for you, too, all the shades

of scarlet I’d paint the walls

if you said you liked red

and I knew you were headed home?