The Sandpiper

The roaring alongside he takes for granted 

and that every so often the world is bound to shake. 

He runs, he runs to the south, finical, awkward, in 

a state of controlled panic, a student of Blake.
The beach hisses like fat. On his left, a sheet
of interrupting water comes and goes
and glazes over his dark and brittle feet.
He runs, he runs straight through it, watching his toes.
—Watching, rather, the spaces of sand between 

them, where (no detail too small) the Atlantic 

drains rapidly backwards and downwards. As he 

runs, he stares at the dragging grains.
The world is a mist. And then the world is 

minute and vast and clear. The tide is higher 

or lower. He couldn't tell you which. His beak 

is focused; he is preoccupied,
looking for something, something, 

something. Poor bird, he is obsessed!
The millions of grains are black, white, tan, and 

gray, mixed with quartz grains, rose and amethyst.