These boardwalk slats intermittently
visible where the sand, like an hourglass's
pinch, seeps between chinks, free-
handing straight lines that stop without fuss —

then fill again, as the wind wills it.
The beach path cuts through undulate
dune land where wild rose, marram grass
cover the scene like a pelt

of shifting greens, or rippled sea of bent
and tapered stalks. To step off
the path's to severely threaten
what a modest plaque declares ‘this fragile balance.' If

my affection's bending toward you seems
or feels ever just a blind, predetermined
consequence of random winds,
think of here: our land's end, streams

of ocean mist weighed down your curls,
spritzed your cheeks and lids, made both
our jeans sag and stick. The shore birds'
reasons blow through us too, but underneath

or way above our range of
understanding . . . even caring. I'll
pass this sight of you — soggy, in love
with me, bent to inspect and feel

the petals of something tiny, wild, nestled
among the roots and moss — over
the projector of my fluctuating self if ever
life's thin, rigid narrowness

requests my heart be small. You taught
and teach me things. Most alive when grit
makes seeing hard, scrapes the lens
through which what's fixed is seen to weaken.