Da Capo al fine

Along a spit of land off Veracruz
I stand alone in this concealed cove
nudged into shore by the Gulf of Mexico
not much more than a rocky scallop
sand and sea and silence

broken only by screaming terns
slicing white clouds above distant waves
their imagined lapping gentle firm
a bit of foam curling beneath
swallow-tailed kites’ piercing whistle
alarmed perhaps by my presence

but here between my feet ocean
soundless except for the tiniest touch
of lips on wet rock gentle kisses
a lover seeking to be sated

but like the clangor of percussion my feet
squelch loudly even as I tiptoe through
shimmering sand filling rapidly with crystal
water each print mirroring two o’clock sun

reflecting from the backs of darting blue crab
skitterings more seen than heard
their tumbling iridescence shushing like chiffon
dancers taking the stage
as they enter/exit en masse from their dune caves
miniscule avalanches crashing in their wake
grain by grain falling beneath shining claws

so that I lean to listen to this delicate composition
in this secluded concert hall
its startling acoustics cupping

first the proffered kiss swiftly followed by another
ocean lips on polished lava

then skitterings like brush on snare

the muffled beat of sand grains pooling on wet toes

followed by a four second count

Da Capo al Fine.