Beach
“Stay here,” I tell her.
I say it a lot.
“Don’t go” (locking doors),
though I know she will not.
It isn’t the larger
Don’t go that I mean,
not here in this port
with the sailings we’ve seen.
My moments inside
stretch with fears hard to tell,
a stamping of boots
in a world of thin shells.
Yet always she’s waiting
just as she was—
as if what maroons her
might also cocoon her—
Can it be that it does?
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