In 1992 a major storm tore
the rented beach finger,

ten foot whitecaps yawning
in a horizon of clenched tar.

I walked with mom
through clews of wind

& saw conches strewn
on down the dying strand:

bleached comma fragments
among the bolting towel skins.

The sea was standing there
on foaming legs, fully awake now,

green glass tongues hissing,
a death myth of muscle,

smiles and grimaces
& lolls and swallows,

all at once, synchronous.
More alive than any god.