On our early morning walk we discover a small city
left on the beach by unknown builders:

thigh-high towers of pink and grey granite 
warmed by chunks of sea-smoothed brick

that once made houses.  
You ask me to wipe sun block from your face.

I do, careful with the eyes and mouth.
Best of all are the standing stones—

druid figures piled up from rocks,
and set out so the tide will wash their feet

before it knocks them down.
Erect amid the flowing green Spartina grasses,

they tilt their oval shoulders
as if it were bad luck to say: so close to paradise.

(back to Brace’s Cove)