What I Hear On the Beach

the scowl of sand
24/7 at 100 volume
as the wailing seashell
is taken from it
like an orphan 
from a sense of belonging
the lascivious whip of the waves
carrying the tears of pebbles to shore
no footprints left to drown
no umbrellas or chairs or
sunglasses to sweep away
the twilight cackle of sun.

even in bed
a murmur of tide creeps in
like a mosquito (every damn night)
I hear it in the air-con
in my baby pictures
in the swimming trunks
it follows me down the stairs
peers with me out the balcony
scales down a kiss of quarry tiles
scurries home.

sometimes I wonder if
i'm too tethered to what could have been
and that just leads to the rope getting longer.
sometimes I wonder if
part of experience is the feeling of not getting it
but watching it fly to ceilings I cannot touch.

maybe part of birth is to miss.
maybe part of the ceiling is hunger.