On the tips of dried grass, I walk
bare footed aching to discover
where else a sea can be found when I am nowhere
close to the pacific roaring waves of my flat coastal city where angeles hum by the sea
and concrete kisses are copious to the flat soles of the huaraches,  plastic sandles and warm enough to be called friendly to the rubber soles of long haired girls on skateboards riding down the boardwalk

Where is the sea in this winter
when the chest holds tight to the air and wishes to expand for terror of the cold

long hours pass, dried stems come into focus
when the parched
glory of brown reveals itself as an abundance of  blades of grass marchitas to the two traveling
arches of my feet

what is grass in winter if not my answer