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?