swell and break

There was a man on the beach
the morning I arrived in town.
Motionless;
from the neck up
he was eating sand.
A naked blister-puff—
I immediately thought,
‘Only his wife could have done this.’

I kicked him and he didn’t move.
I tried to touch him,
but was afraid to,
of the texture—
the swell and the break,
tugging him seaward
with strands of froth.

Nobody wanted him,
which is why they had left him.
Even his wife seemed disgusted, I knew
more than any other emotion.
So the seagulls came down
and peck-pecked;
we stood around, watching
the swell and break.

I decided to take her home,
His wife,
His Elle,
and loved her in waves
while he ate sand
kicked up by the broken swell.