Sands are crooked hands,
wriggling snakes and ladders under a liquid shore,
and a wooden pier is ancient origami
bent and buckled under decades of wash.
Walking is watching 20 years of shifting sands
spread across 45 meters of warped planks
where 25 men of 50 or more to reiterate entirely the
5,000 some years of fisherman wisdom:” good” and “bad.”
First trashed two decades ago,
second crumpled by a tornado on the coast,
and fresh constructions receive the thrice worn name
from desperate parents thrice upheld,
and like a stubborn 5 buck tradition,
we walk the incarnate bridge like a mobius strip,
a bridge to nowhere, the parted sea, the middle finger
stretched into the ocean, connects only to itself
and back to the car.
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