Backpackers, Beachshackers
Pits of our feet pockmark the beach.
We are music—metal cups
Clip-clop, toes pebble-trip,
Dip between fists of rock.
Can you hear our marching hearts?
Watch us water-walk from pregnant tides,
The sun our bride and we are almost virgin too,
Sand whoring at our ankles.
We two-step sea stars—starfish—
Crayfish, spread-eagled along the brim,
Their bodies snarled in hollow
Driftwood beads.
We fear salt-swollen waves: pickled, pruned,
We will be tossed like bread crumbs across the shore.