Beach, a poem

Beach

Ninth Avenue, maybe, or Eighth — 
that doesn’t much matter. The Gulf
lies at the palm-shadowed end,
the hours giving way,
the day giving way,
the beach becoming the world
and the world, the beach.
Blinded, we laugh, walking
the startled sand, one compass
as good as another, salt
to left or right and, then,
the other way around.
Shall we swim? Later.

Stephen Brooke ©2025