I draw your picture in the sand with a stick.
The waves come and eat away at it, from the bottom up.
They blur your lines.
I draw your picture as the waves recede.
Clams are under your eyes.
Their bubbles come through the sand to watch me.
It is a wavy thing, your picture.
A beach-head picture.
I write your name above the picture, and my name below.
The water fills our letters.
It drains to the sea, and carries us with it.

I draw your picture in the sand.
The tide is changing.
The sun is setting.
Out on the water the boats are turning.
The long note of the ferry comes from the islands.
The water is over my name.
My name is gone to the waters.
The waves cover your face.
Your sand hair waves beneath.
I cannot draw your picture.
My stick will not write your name.

The sea has taken your face.
The sea has taken our names.
The tide has come in; water covers your picture.
I throw the stick at the sunset.
The tide has come in.
The sun has set.
The ferry docks.
I drew your picture in the sand.