When we’re together, I’m trailing in the surf,
my eyes picking away where the waves pull in
and out, following the hollows left by your feet –
always a minute or two behind, trying to find
something half-buried and dragged in to my toes,
a memory to wash off, pocket, and bring back home.
Perhaps I call, my voice fighting with the wind,
but you’re eager for the dunes, you’ve seen something
disappearing up ahead. Away you go, inland, inland.