The beach is nothing but gray basalt
from some volcanic eruption
deep in the island’s 
palm shrouded memory.
The ocean cards rock
through its relentless mill,
scrapes and shapes,
for time immaterial.
It’s the endless siege of shorelines
where water cannot let land lie
and land resists,
like the good life does dying.
Meanwhile, my body is 
its own battlefront:
toes wiggle in the water,
skin shudders,
heart sighs, “aaaah.”