Inside this glass its sand
flowing between the hours
and shoreline –you drink

waves, not sure one grave
would pull you under
give in to the small stones

you swallow twice
covering your mouth
with beach grass, harbors

and sea birds flying toward you
no longer keeping track
bringing you more cries

and expect an answer –you water
rock that never ripens
though your shadow

is rotting on the ground
pouring from these dead
as moonlight and left behind.