196. KELP

KELP
Keeping the stand by the green ocean border.
The waves slapping like mad, drumming the Earth
in some beatnik-bongo rhythm. I watch the sand
move itself around - eddies of water and clumps of
seaweed. 'The sand doesn't move itself anywhere.'
I hear my words in the air, just before they are blown
about and suffused with the roar - again - of surf
and sand and wind and shore. 'It doesn't move itself
anywhere, just gets tossed by everything else.'
-
Keeping the stand by the green ocean border.