At the tremor of his footsteps
Little transparent eft-like things sank
And disappeared into the wet sand,
But he knew, if he waited,

Kept his shadow from clouding
The sky, they would be back;
A periwinkle put out crab’s legs
And march about; barnacles

Open their beaks; and everywhere
Small slime-blobs blossom,
Medusa-haired, into anemones.
But getting up, stretching his legs,

And looking over the lone
And level sands, he knew too
That out there in the man-foundering
Ocean there seethed such abundance of

Oddity and fecundity that she could afford,
At the turn of every tide,
To leave all such as this behind,
And simply forget about it.