summer

on hampton beach the people walk with legs sultry and
poised, white puka shells in dancing lines
around their necks. they are loud
here, big ocean voices and wave-pattern words that go
up and down in tide rhythm to match the water
or compete with it, rather. 

they are all swinging hips and i
am sand still. leaning heat that heavy-presses 
tanned shoulders, vein-lined and glistening in
warm red air as side-to-side
they dance, a constant,
steady swaying.

on hampton beach's boardwalk framed with
tiny shops i bought two
hermit crabs called katch and krash,
both with a "k" because i am
with a "k." their names were pulled from sea-salt gallons
lapping careful on the shore, 

a cadenced catch of beach-life land 
and its crashing cling together. 

one year passes and they bored me, sat and
ambled only and 
i handed off their rust-coarse bodies to a friend with
lakeside homes who loved them
even small and unexciting, even
mine for quite some time.

dear all the people who say
i never let go.

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