His is the barefooted
Sand grain press
And cushion, cool toes
In the lapping edge.

And where brine falls away
He looks
To find treasures
Brought on tide

And by the sea’s means,
Things cast high
And left bleached.
His is the measure

Of time in waves,
Regular draw
And curl forward,
And again

The pulse
Of far ocean
Felt in an oscillation.
And through the night

His ears
Hear the surf clap
And crash
In white frothing excitation

Yet his eyes
Are to the black sky,
Spattered in constellation
And celestial bodies

Glimmering as the
Phosphorescent beings
That light
The universal sea

At his toe tip reach
And in the fluid ocean,
And in the intertidal furls
In which he lives:

The light years he perceives
So close
He can nearly
Touch them.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015