A thin thread binds off white iridescent
and apparently endless. Wind whipped sand
bites at knees. A bubble streaks where the surf
leaves the sand brown wet and loses the race
with time. It is not there the next moment
does not exist yet there is something in
the bite of the sand or the skyless bright
afternoon that rings every wave shape
and wind shaped curve into a giant gentle tide
with the boy flying with kites on other
bright uncrowded days. The tide collapses
midway as the bent fishless man walks on
and the thin string that binds us runs out. My
hand would shape you as the wind and hide warm
before the sky reappears and bears down
Dec 16,1973
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem