Sting of a sand bug
smell of ocean
children playing in the distance.
Sun, cool air, early summer,
people turning their bodies on the sand like sundials.
It was worth the drive,
even with a hangover,
even with the car jerking along,
driving past splotchy pink college bros
and a million girls who look like Ke$ha,
wondering if this is a good day
or a bad day for my ass
when I am a million miles from a full length mirror.
A sea gull flying against the wind
remembering our smallness
the seagull’s delayed shadow
the tattooed men
the skin parade
the ocean the ocean.
Families baptize their young in the surf,
sun worshipers with no concept of ritual
who turn slowly with the hours
texting someone in a city
too far away to matter.
this Italian man.
this Moroccan man.
this Israeli man.
The way the day settles in.
The bare shameless humanity of the beach.
The sudden lack of resistance
leaves you flailing, a fish out of water.
Yes, I’m still working on an essay about Ocean City itself, but in the mean time, here are my notes from the beach at Fenwick State Park in the form of what might be a poem.