The Order of Things-Revised

The distance

between the joints

in your fingers

compels you

to massage the tangled ropes

of moss

in your progress

along the beach road

tides leave you conch

and muscle

upon beds of reed

I tell you

pockets pockets

put the largest pieces

in first

wipe the salt

off each thing

but not

losing yourself

in the journey of the sand

leave that instead

to the leaves and heads

of sea oats and their dunes

the sea itself says

you will grow to be

a man like this.

Doesn’t the hurricane say so, too?

The pendant of saliva at your lip?