Each swell and each crash, the beach knows asymmetry and distortion, as if straining to complete the wind or waves, as if disavowing their lunar dependencies. I cannot see an end, not from here, but perhaps that’s a matter of embodiment, not the necessity of hydrodynamics. What if I float high above it? Where ghosts & angels listen to the B-sides of the galaxy, so bored with golden records. Or from the deep, where kelp noodles do their impressions of middle school dancers, ever awkwardly swaying, off the beat. Can I roll the ocean out like a ball of dough, until it is flat, cut its edges with a knife and consume the scraps? It seems not. Perhaps the end can only be seen from underneath, as we rise toward the surface – everything growing brighter. A feeling does not resemble a drop of water falling somewhere between a poem and a body. Can anything ever be finished? A trickle, a dilation, and then it shatters in your ear.