We walked on the beach in the hot afternoon sun
As the sea had reached its high point of receding
With dead fish puked in disgust from its fat belly
And a few brown mollusks, still sleeping in shells.
The sea seemed to say nothing much in metaphor.
To a mile-long series of footsteps sinking as prints
Writing our history for erasing by the next wave.
But still the sea did nothing to suggest metaphors.
That stayed moored to the sky with a fat deep anchor.