I read the incomprehensible sand; it rides the barrier of desire to the coast. A moth is a scrap of lace that knows the limit of growing old. Not to copy. Not to look. Not to linger inside an inscription. Where does the evidence of an ambivalent struggle leave its inexplicable trace? Not in these words, but between them. The beach and the animals exchange their shaded message until the transparent curve runs out of breath, collapses into elegant punctuation. This is not the beginning. This is a beautiful interlude in the migration of gray whales. If the sand reveals its contours with distinct imprudence, I mistrust the intentions of the sun. No one knows how to look it in the eye, so much shame it inspires. We walk like cliffs, always wandering somewhere we can’t return from. Where does the music of an unplayable sonata leave its inexplicable trace? Not in our dreams but between them. Not holy. Not anything. A coast is the scene of an irresolvable gap; the body and its memory; the land and the water. This is not the end. This is a beautiful interlude in the migration of seagulls.