Bacara Beach

Down the manicured path to the beach below
onto the wild shore ringed by oil platforms:
some far away, some close and crumbling
like ancient Greek temples
uncovered at low tide after millennia of decay
below the waves.

On the hard sand near the breaking curls
of blue-green water,
I run barefoot, my footfalls melting into the salty earth.
Like some winged god, I glide with the breeze
as though delivering my messages to the lesser spirits,
children of those without great stature,
those more in love with us, we simple mortals.

Kelp, brown and green, straight and twisted
lies as if arranged amidst islands of driftwood
like withered bones becoming home for flies
and other unseen creatures.
My feet carefully avoid these monuments
staged by invisible hands that guide their placement
in the world.
I do not disturb their creation like some big kid
kicking over his little brother’s sandcastles.
I disturb nothing but the sand,
my heels pressing inward as I labor
down the beach.

I run not for exercise but for sanity,
to feel my heart, once closed and dark,
pressing against my ribcage,
to feel the surge of blood
merge into the surge of waves breaking on the shore,
to hear the roar of the ocean in my ears like music
unencumbered by form or scales or artifice.
I run not for exercise but to find myself—
my other half running along the sandy shore
towards me in the sun, naked, without guile
without headtrips, without all the games learned
in the world above.
I want to touch the earth again,
to revel in her warm embrace,
safe for a moment from the darkness within.

Along the way
blobs of black oil
mar the beach
I do not feel them,
I do not care.
Black oil on the my soles—
stains that must exist for now.
Water and oil do not mix
but coexistence in an uneasy suspension.
The sand wears down
the resistance of my feet
and will clean them by gentle rubbing.

Like all things that live in the surf,
          I become worn smooth
by the endlessly subtle motions of water, sand, and wind.
My fears wear away as I lope across the beach,
not part of it like the kelp, the driftwood,
the sand, and the sea,
but more like the oil,
an awkward visitor who’s come to stay.