(For those not familiar, Singing Beach is an actual Massachusetts beach where the sand supposedly "sings.")
The beach has its own frequency—
the sand squeaks when walked upon.
We amble along this whistling
for hours, for years, without speaking.
We walk even further to where our silence
pushes the sand then takes it back,
our weight too heavy to sustain us.
We sink, sucked in by wetness
listening to the acoustics of shells,
those tiny ears being crushed underfoot.
Let’s think about the air under us
and never give it a name.
Let’s call it love and never hear
the same note twice.