A beach should not have sand. It should have rocks

That tumble to the water down below,

The heirs to certain strong, oppressive shocks

That shuddered as the land began to grow.

It ought to terrorize you to go swimming

As every step down to the surf’s unstable;

The sun above should be unchanged, undimming

As once in Jericho—but that’s a fable--

And yet not bright enough to make it warm.

It ought to shelter animals unnumbered

That can’t be drawn out to their proper form

And dig into the beach where old gods slumbered.

A proper beach, in other words, should be

A cold extension of a living sea.