Sand Flesh and Sky
--Clarence Major 

Our ropes are the roots
of our life. We fish
low in the earth,
the river beneath runs through our veins,
blue and cold in a riverbed. 

When the sun comes up,
the moon moves slowly to the left. 

I tie the logs and limbs together,
holding them in place. 

The ocean beats them
smooth like rock.
Here my sense of time is flat. 

I find in a strip of damp sand
footprints and marks of hands,
and torn pieces of flesh. 

Night is a beast.
The tide moves, gushing
back and forth. 

Sunlight touches our faces,
turning us, turning us, turning us
in our morning sleep.