We sculpt the sand: in toil, sculpted selves.
Now come together to anoint castles
Where the tide overruns all walls,
In sand whose grains star my skin and grace
his, His blue scoop blisters my long grip.
My son pats the pool undoing our work—
This is only a moat, we see.
Sculptures unmade, we are made to sculpt.
This bent trowel we share meets the
Meaningless beach where citadels pass,
To dig and fill and dig the sea;
We enjoy our toil here, my son and I.
I build him a pool with a seat
In joy, his plump hands sand-dappled,
patting. Forever, sculpted: sculptors, ever.