Which of us will be the last to recall
The cold colors of ***** splashing
Through the dunes on breezes
Lit by twilight ends of summer hours
Burning still the sands  
The rasping grass chorus
Laid silent, together, under the skies of our youth

Which of us will call out the scream of
That screen door, banging  
More frequently than the distant crashes of surf
Nerves tensed as dry and brittle
As those great grasses, ceaseless through day and through
night

We never thought about such things  
Before the years called back to us  
As mocking as the gulls'
Insistent bravado  
Laughter turned to tears
To swoop away
Empty