“Joe, mach die Musik von damals nach!”
The dark gray receding tide uncovers
New reaches of white sand, and underfoot
Dry bony driftwood moves into the shade
Growing as cold as
The sparrow-colored
Cliffs that hover above the beach to mark
The rooted boundaries beyond all which
Nothing made of the sea may pass. The flying
Onshore winds only
Flap through an awning
Over the empty beach house. The sun becomes
Paler than one could believe. The treachery
Of memory is probably no deeper now
Than it is ever,
But when, toward evening,
Summer shivers into covering darkness
Spreading no particular season’s chill
Down the beach, older remembered images
Invade the prospect.
Like the preposterous
Youngsters who come prancing over the sand.
Waiting for sundown on the hard cold beach
To send them groping for each other’s furry
Parts, in the blackness
Of sandy blankets,
Handling the loneliness, the coldest fears
Each has ever known, in the only ways
Occurring to them, we ourselves expend
Passion on peeping
(At seascapes, perhaps)