Strip off your skirts
and wade into the lapping gape,
where the sand is a mouth
against your underwear.
We want to be amalyzed,
grabbed by the back of our one-piece,
into a cavernous gullet,
widening for the cotton’s salt,
reef cracking suggestively in the lurch,
surfers aiming like teeth,
moving you to the back of its throat,
full of use, nutritional.