It's never dry –another gust
though this elevator is carried
the way you count backward
for hours and the door flies open
lets in a sea half hillside
half rising through the floor
–you walk in to sleep, begin
with the sound sand makes
when scattered for footprints
still following the silence
between 10, then 0, pressed
against your face –tides
are used to this, start out
to forgive, then lay down
as emptiness and a home.
