Hear conch shell whisper: Her empty bottle

tolls, cast on eve’s splayed breakers; rattles gulls

and recedes walking backwards. Nonetheless

her distress message wades on shattered glass,

to beach collapses dumbstruck, messed, and

feigns shortness of breath. Sawn, her hydrangea

slump by dawn, as the white ghost of thumb pressed

into pink elbow a second ago

shares what it doesn't feel but did. She’ll know,

most likely; bid that necessity dulls

when holding an old lady’s too soft hand

on rough sand, reviving a swamped stranger,               

   or when the next best thing to beach access

   is a compulsory crosswalk puddle.