Now that I'm away, I thirst
for the salty Pacific, even though
it's not perfect, even though it's
murky and polluted,
and sometimes makes me sick
if I swim in it too often, or too soon
after a rain. The sand is the same,
not fine but hard and grained,
littered with trash
dull brown and speckled black;
coarse on my feet,
cold on wet winter mornings.
Here's what I mean:
There are better beaches
than yours, but I've made you mine
in all the ways that matter,
made you mine
a thousand times over
on sunny days
and rainy days,
on dangerous days
when you tossed me tumbling underwater,
on small days
when there weren't many waves
and I sat loving you between them.

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