I understand why the shore line

is uncertain; why castles are sand.

Gulls carry the harbor and drop

it past buoys, as if bread had

fallen from their mouths.


A reckless hermit crab

navigates across a blanket.

A life guard judges, and

with evening, combs beach

for what is stranger.


When sea floats and sky

heralds concerts on a jutting

pier. How waves receive news

within percussion. Where a local

band adumbrates to the sea.


We undress for the sun;

at night regretting ourselves,

embraced by dark space, by

fumbling hands, in legs. A sea

breeze, cogent as undertow.

Theodore Eisenberg retired from the practice of labor law in 2014 to write every day. His poems have appeared, or will soon appear, in The Listening Eye, The Aurorean, Poetica, Thema, Rattle, Halfway Down the Stairs, Slipstream Press, Jewish Literary Journal, Crosswinds Press, concis, Main Street Rag and Ragged Sky Anthology. His chapbook, This, was published in 2017 by Finishing Line Press. His poems are what becomes “this” for him – fragments received within the circle of his intimacy.