Erosion

We are slowly

undermined. Grain

by grain. . . .

inch by inch. . . .

slippage.

It happens as we watch.

The waves move their long row

of scythes over the long beach.

It happens as we sleep,

the way the clock's hands

move continuously

just out of sight,

but more like an hourglass

than a clock,

for here sand

is running out.

We wake to water.

Implacably lovely

is this view

though it will swallow

us whole, soon

there will be

nothing left

but view.

We have tried a seawall.

We have tried prayer.

We have planted grasses

on the bank, small tentacles

hooks of green that catch

on nothing. For the wind

does its work, the water

does sure work.

One day the sea will simply

take us. The children

press their faces to the glass

as if the windows were portholes,

and the house fills

with animals: two dogs,

a bird, cats—we are becoming

an ark already.

The gulls will follow

our wake.

We are made of water anyway,

I can feel it in the yielding

of your flesh, though sometimes

I think that you are sand,

moving slowly, slowly

from under me.