They are poor old creatures washed up from the sea
-best not look- or might they be waiting...
who can say... the last word of the comedy
     to hurl themselves through the waves, and end it?
Either way nothing to do with us.
One tries a word-search puzzle, one drifts off in the shade.
     The ebb and the flow
          a gentle tide plays.

     We accompany ourselves with great fanfare
lithe and spilled all over bare sand
like angels free of care or guidance.
     Caught at the edge of our vision the poor creatures
are poor versions of ourselves.
By puzzling summer's resolution we apprehend
      ourselves more clearly-
          poor versions of them.