eager to explain.)
Once sand poured in here as the surf washed the sediment back.
When the other was listening, speaking was.
You want to order yourself away from the ocean’s will to
misremember.
The Ohlone came here to clam. The sandy hands of the Ohlone while they clammed.
(Off to the side, a boy with a red kite.)
Someone should walk down through the pines and ask you to coffee or a late lunch.
Someone should appear on the beach with a video camera and five or six sharp pencils.
Foundation for becoming, underwater dictation, screeching gulls, your great loves and dislikes.
(Now the historians cheer and fly their kites.)
Once this place was a rancho. Joaquin Castro planted the cypresses that line the main road.
Within the ocean’s voice lies one perfect version of the story
no one can remember. Or the future is the place to better remember: the future doesn’t needle
like the past: it is lovely until perhaps just before it arrives.
Acting as the self flickers and disappears (goodbye self!), or becomes temporarily brand new.
When the other was listening, speaking.
After statehood, Leslie Kester bought the land for $10 down, mortgage to $27, 500, planted eucalyptus, raised cattle and chickens on the eastern slope of the dunes.
The hiss of the eucalyptus.
Not a dark mirror: for planting for perfect vision and grammatical mistakes.
Crab life, mollusks, and further beneath: sea urchins, mushroom coral, lantern-fish.
(Refrain: a place for diving, foundation for becoming.)
“The two-mile dip into the oceanic abyss ends at a seafloor that is featureless but for granite outcroppings, shale reefs, or the remains of shipwrecks.”
The shallow structure is written in waves.
Harry Hooper, an outfielder for the Red Sox, bought part of Leslie Kester’s farm in 1925 and called it Sunset Beach.
You’re worried you may not understand, and your questions have been overlooked.
In 1929 they began to build houses on the bluff: first the Lyons then the Snyders, the Pages, the Bleshes, the Rosses and the Wilsons. Frank Ross ran a diner at the bottom of the hill.
Needing things to be sung around the campfire.
A foundation lacking reflection. Shipwrecks.
Dusk now, and the curlews run along the beach with their long beaks and Napoleon legs: godwits and gulls, smashed up bits of shell.
(The hiss when I say eucalyptus)
Looking down and away from the sunset, a sky without fretfulness, reflecting wholly what the viewer lacks in his enormous failings.
They planted dune grass and apple grass and sea fig, Monterey pine, Arizona blue cedar, pyracantha.
(When the other was listening)
The beach was a POW camp during the second world war, and every year, three or four clam diggers would drown.
The line between water and sky deepens : symbol for slippage.
And in another place you rode your Schwinn the two miles down Bell Road to Dewitt Cinema and paid fifty cents for The Love Bug, or The Goose that Laid the Golden Egg.
How many other people were there too, ordering themselves around the joys and sorrows of 1979.
You like to remember it as a large tracking shot.
It reaches up above the cinema and follows the boy on his journey past the moto-cross track and the elementary school to the pastures and the county jail, the asylum and the condo complex and the softball fields
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