The beach. One small boat-body
seems to shake, flinging itself
down, down, into the sand.

The water oozes, becomes
a secret channel to the sea.

A green tint lump of glass,
almost opaque, impossible nothing.

But glass, dull light upon a finger,
the vague sea-strain of thought,
looked at again and again:

That impulse to pick up millions
of stones, place a little pile in the brain.