It is pleasant to lie on the rocky shore in the sun
exposed and open. It's all there--the sound of
wind, the sound of waves--the meaningless
journal of a lifetime. Nothing is clear, not even
the obvious. One loses interest and falls asleep
within the water's easy reach.

This driftwood on the beach, dry and bleached
white, white as a bone you might say, or white
as snow. If an artist (wearing a sweatshirt, blue
jeans and tennis shoes without socks) came
walking along, he might, seeing the possibilities,
pick up this piece of driftwood and take it home.
Not me. I fling it back in the water.