The Beach

by Ernest Bailey

 I left my feet printed
on the beaches
Of San Juan.
When low tide left
waves
in the sand,
Where I'm disfigured
in the mouth
of a baby
bird.
Quiet stones      are shoes, socks
are cigarettes
There are still
exoskeleton crabs
of cruel
artifacts.
Where the shore twirls
the ocean
in it's fingers,
When the waves     spit
and laugh      uncontrollably.