16
POSTSCRIPT
Arching
its
back,
lifting
its
knee,
showing
its
teeth,
the
sea
roars
and
drools
milky
foam
from
its
maws
yet
reaches
no
farther
than
this
slope
of
sand.
Our
two
worlds,
of
brute
eternal
power
of
feeble
finite
thought,
meet
on
this
verge—I
shake
off
the
sun,
and
tramp
down
to
where
it
washes
up
as
soft
and
fine
as
swift
as
fingers
at
the
keyboard
of
musical
my
toes.
By
Peter
Grieco