Go, go

under the sand, where the sand fleas
burrow, where the clam shells close and open,
bubble and breathe, where the sea froth settles
in a quiet sigh after the rush of a breaking tide.
Imprint of footsteps hardly go deeper, just a little,
than the mermaids’ purses, the moonshells
with their dug in edges, with their faces up,
the bright color of daylight shining
in the mirrors that they offer. Go, go
where you do not visit, where you cannot live,
where you will not see the sun and the vast
horizon, and no one warns you of the building
wave or even catches at your soft warm hand
as you slip on the sand in the cool and open air.