Golden Door Part 5

Sometimes the sand cakes to your feet,
heavy as mud,
quicksand underfoot.

Sometimes, for no apparent reason
it wears a black veil--
wet and sticky --
that the ocean's laps can't clean.

(Is the shoreline in mourning for it's dying lover, the sea?)

Sometimes you cannot outrun the froth advance
and it makes you giggle you tried and failed.
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