A desert underneath
The crooked line that makes the shore
Which calms and curls the sand back
To an image of itself.
The winding pull of water still
Remembers every grain of sand
It’s hot rough essence, the quiet still
At the bottom of the current
On the crest of a dune. It calls out
With a winded hush, what matters now
Is water, what has always been,
what will never be
Enough. A desert underneath,
takes time to quench.