11pm

at night, as the beach-rats light their fires

and the fishing boats head home, nets

drying on wet decks, as the night shift passes

the day shift, trailing with them the sharp

smoke smell of their weariness, as car tires

scrunch in gravel, as the dust rises

from the road to coat the windshields,

leaves, throats.

 

The roseate sun slowly slides

towards the darkening mountains

as a few couples walk along the beach,

some wandering, some sure in their path,

as the sand is quietly displaced, replaced,

as each moment diminishes and enriches.

 

At this time it seems some question

is being asked which in this place—

caught in both light and darkness,

between the long stretch of sand

and the soft sweep shush of the tides—

might quietly, might quickly, might almost

be answered.

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