wet gray sand
gobs dropping through fingers

blustery day
wind slaps goose-pimpled skin

I create footsteps for detectives to follow
as of now no crime

a house on stilts
a lady holding her skirt above the waves

maybe the past can’t be revisited
but ghosts leave fingerprints

some think they are so smart like
those sails far out on the horizon riding the wind

that far free joy so unreal
as feet here walk around the driftwood, seaweed, rock

there’s something in the pit of the stomach
seawater, salt shriveling the human

everything has been decided
tides carry out the past, return only wreckage

where can one hide a body?
where can one hide a heart?
not in the gray sand.

– Dan Cuddy

editors note: No tempting a capricious tide. Keep your crimes to yourself, undone. – mh clay