Poem | Beach Haven, New Jersey

I’m afraid
of who it is
that made
these things.

The surf
repeatedly blasting
the sand
to waste,

the weird slide
of seagulls
along
the breeze,

the smashed shells,
stranded weeds,
the bells
of shape-shifting

clouds. The all-
maddening sound
of churning.
A will

wrathed with
delirious light
alone
could carve

a foamy,
flickering line
and then expect
small beings

to dance
on it
lovingly
till death.