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Sea Level

 Nearly consumed by an opulent ceanothus,
 the meter rose, sanctioning our time

 against the abundant, blue flowers.  Sand
 traveled everywhere—by wind, by water,

 by pants cuff—as myriads of kites
 lifted above the seacliff into the barely

 blue; on the beach the girls were wicked
 as if they recalled the numbered sands of Hell.

 Surfers carried their boards down the seacliff—
 sun-worn skin, graying hair, with the fixed

 focus of yogis—drawing their young bodies
 past the idle girls and toward wave.

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