At last here, where
	the Sun's setting.
	The beach
	is truly a God-send to the city.
	A place where space finally
	is given
	a chance to be itself, laced
	by the Sun's breath luminescence, and time
	has a rest lounged about stretched prone
	across the sand along the sky listening...
	with an occasional full-chest sigh cracking the shade of eyes closed to peek
	a magnificent glimpse
	of oceanic saunter
	draping over itself undressing through pulsations
	coming forth continuous, everlasting
	precious touch lightly
	across the cheek. Whispers the breeze
	overlaying steady ocean's sound approachings
	floating me
	through my hair and skull reaching recesses in
	need of massage
	and lullabys, liquefying what's turned solid
	in everyday's squeeze, pressure, and my shoulders
	dislocate into restfulness and their rightful place. Settling, sediment
	among the sand and stones, rocks cliff at moments
	who eventually come back from their own
	billion year solidity. Luckily mine's not
	so long. I get to rest by the end of the day, and can choose
	to do so even before, as I have now.
	And like
	the Sun, I'm setting.
Copyright 1998 John Feissel. All rights reserved.