Sand never stays,
Makes shapes that never stay-shapes.
Ever the vagrant, the transient, the refugee,
She lost her papers somewhere around Sahara:
They were forged, anyway.
She goes where she wants, repeating the souls of fishes,
Of shattered rocks and shell-dwellers.
She channels the wind like whales, like wires, like bridges.
She holds the key to a beach where life crawled up
Out of a soupy sea
And where, at last, under a scarlet sun,
It will trickle back someday.