Sensing but with nothing on its mind

by Kathryn Rantala

the beach appraises me

wind, gravel,
tossed wood sifting me through matrix;
appositives and parts;

limpits, augers, clams,
shattered moonsnails
curled in their attendant nests
of deposition,
afterthought,

my own wet feet
strange among them.
Cold wanders across my neck
as I turn to look back.

The morsels of sleep that elude you,
tossing in the worn bed
beneath the window,
are invoked by beach,
grain by grain

and by the clock,
alert to change and frugal with it,
pulling itself along
with uneven hands.

Everything connected
to what keeps it; 
the rest of us leave
the way we came.