Second Beach

a pale thumb,
the slug claims right-of-way
on the path to Second Beach.
sunlight slashes the misted shade
waves muffle all conversation
the backpack’s wine and apples forgotten

I recall

Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major with Ocean Sounds
Sunday mornings in the North End apartment
seated at the table
with the broken drop leaf

listening until noon
Strauss
Vivaldi
the thick Sunday Statesman

sipping vodka and orange juice
healing from the night before
a penitent in church
there in the front pew

the ocean’s hymn hushes
the swirling surf’s rush
caressing the Quillayute Needles
spires of sandstone pillars
salted mist mutes the choir
enduring in its lament.