Receder, returner
The old game forgotten
Your crooked nail
Teasing me across
Lengths of flatland
Sand, slapped new -
Agog to be crushed
Under my flat feet
Welling up in my tread
Ahead - cleared of rock
Cleaned of stone
Your blue tongue
Slicks its drool
Across the bay
Morning hunger for
Shoreline morsels
I wade the shallows
Feed the mouth
