The Beach

The Beach is strewn with rubble.
Dead sea corpses decompose
with a pungent fishy odor.
Tampons and twisted plastic relics
beyond recognition,
Scorch useless in the sun’s glare.
My soles burn.
I pick my way among butts and beer cans.

Did the beach not once hold treasures,
White pebbles and delicate shells,
Knarled driftwood and the iridescent
home of the clam?
I close my eyelids.
The waves remember.
They kiss the beach and return to
wherever waves go.

Did we not once share intricate treasures?
I do not know.
The waves have washed away our prints,
If once we walked this shore.