Sanibel Island

I walk the beach. Sun hot

on white sand, shells on shells—

the multitude on this

far-stretched strand transfixes me.

Milling flocks of gulls and terns

don’t flinch from my

steady pace. A solitary

ibis on delicate pink stilts,

curved bill of matching shade,

wades in skidding foam.

No way around—my sneakered

feet can step only if they grind

on undulating pale-gold mounds,

smash innocent individuals picked

clean by birds of prey, tumbled

by the sanding sea.

Mottled scallops in magenta

calico, white angel wings,

translucent tawny pairs of

rainbowed blades rest weightless

in my age-marked hands.

Pitted shells, drilled by parasites,

are chipped but recognizable.

A wrinkled man with sagging

chest, a woman with flabby arms,

silver-streaked (sunscreened, hatted),

like me search for a pristine shell

untouched by time, leave piles

of collected candidates, rejected.

A seated elder builds sandcastles

to test the waves. The moats are

gone. Separately we contemplate

the sucking sea.

Oddly reassured, I imagine

my bones dissolving into these

bleaching mounds, drifting

unremarked into a warm

world of murmuring waters,

whitening grains.

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