Our rubber-toed soles are holes,
The sandpiper tracks a language.
They surf the ridges
To the envelope's edge.
They know their invisible flight lines.
Our eyes are helpless to the setting sun.
Our eyes are helpless to the setting sun.
They won't stop their hieroglyphic tread
For anything but wave fold,
For anything but wave fold,
For the truth of alphabets holds
But a moment.
We see the water's baby blue
Long after the red ball dissolves.
