Carrying four bags of sand

"torn down where the limpets are blue, the pelicans witness, the waters deliver" (from the song "king of the sand") markers along this shore, a yellow cable beaten into driftwood angles, melted foam blasting in wind on howl on salt and stinging rain, correct me if i'm wrong but were they feathers we wore, woolen hats digging into the backs of our necks, fingerless gloves and rubber boots, leaning into the gale, copying the pelicans in our mind's eye like a camera ghost, burnt recognition left from last night's entertaining teenage bash of silence, cornered youth gathered together to wound each other with sorrowful looks, buzzing smoke and whirling their empties out across the brine, whitecaps spasm, and with rock and stone will turn each bottle into beautiful gems of translucent brown for a child to find one day next summer.