The Sand Reckoner

I only go to the beach to get my aura clean. 
When I have spent too long in the split-
down-the-middle world, it’s time
to crawl back on my knees.   

Twenty-minute trudge from the surf club 
I can’t see a manmade thing.
If there’s nobody here
but me, there’s nothing wrong
with me. 

I’m lucky if it’s blustery 
the wind whips up the sand
like a stinging memory.

It’s nothing
to walk a million years 
of crushed rock. Nothing between me 
and what does the crushing.
 
Even here I have reception.
On Grindr, men are broken down
into electrons and reconfigured
in a neat grid.
One profile reads: Destroy me.
I will live again. 
 
Archimedes wanted to know 
how many grains of sand 
could fit in the world. No, 
he wanted to know the world 
according to a grain of sand. 
Is that it? I guess 
I don’t know what Archimedes wanted 
from the world. 

Years ago, in the dunes
on the desire path worn
between caravan park 
and surf, I passed 
a lifesaver changing 
at the end of his shift
in the shadows under the tower
caught halfway between
what he was and what he was 
becoming.