sand’s infinitely solid, infinitely wide. Not a single grain skips or blows—cemented, glued. The old folks stare, and the sand hardens, absorbing secretions, drying to shell. Waves abuse it and can’t make a scratch. Now their seeing’s silk, to wear down glass tabletops. The seeing sea’s impatient for effect. It beats the beach which was a natural one, has become real property; hard-floor finish. Stop all stupid pounding. Stop before it becomes embarrassing. It’s already. The sea’s frothing and embarrassing.