Slide your feet
into the sand
and feel the
perfect fit of
erosion.

It forgives:

it won’t remember
if you move above it,
but holds you, moist
and solid, connected
with beginnings.

The sun looks to you,
burning and curling
your skin
with its thinking —

the water tries,
effort upon effort,
to wash the
peelings away.

Your hair changes colour,
follows the water
in anticipation.

Your eyes and ears
fill prematurely, but
it doesn’t matter —
even if you could hear

hear the steady sand,
see the scent of
killing water,
it is all too pleasing
to stop.

Smiling now, your
teeth coat and blend
with the dust.

Your tongue dries
to blow across the
feet of another.

[for Dr. William E. Taylor, 1927-1994]