Today the breakers are clear,
sharp, sure in the sun.

And out there, in the squint of distance,
the waves have conversations.

They do not stop.

Somewhere out there in all the talk talk talk,
somewhere out there sits Paris, all the lights.

The waves hit the rocks hard for a secret.

And I believe the clouds will burn,
leave the day to blue sky,

sweating white sand, screens of heat
obscuring everything.

The seaweed yawns ashore.

Somewhere the Sacre Coeur and closer:
a kitchen, beans soaking, an apron

tied tight around a growing waist.