The Dance

The Dance

each morning I dance down to the shore
to sculpt her in the sand

some mornings I might shred
my whole earth
yet cannot contain
how she might pull a glove
onto her right hand
with her left and teeth
beyond conservatory glass

some days I stare at a teaspoon
of her pauses
my wild hands pressing quickly
what little I still hold

but then
without a word
she dances down to the shore
to show me some new secret

I taste the complex minerals
of her breath
as she takes my open hand

and suddenly I realise
she’s sculpted me
in sand