Henry Kearney, IV

Against the edge of every
continent, waves pull.

On Sundays sometimes
we walk the foaming line

over scattered shells, which,
water-ground,

will by and by become
simple sand, then pearls perhaps,

or shells again.  Always the air
is heavy with sea, with the scent

of that depth that bore us,
wet and reluctant,

in the story before the story.
Whether or not the gods

are cruel, this is where they live:
pulling, eroding,

coming in.