West

In the last first place, the pier steps on shore
from the fog, and blankets spread flat on sand,
and others look at others from under
their hats and sunscreen, their umbrellas leaned

into late morning, where coffee still steamed
on the table, dishes waited to be done,
and in the back room an aging aunt dreamed
about salt, talking in her sleep past noon.

In the first last place, sea anemones
squint at the girl from tide pools, pelicans
slice thin air above a wave. Rock says its piece
to rock, its edges sharp with mussel, clam.

Between first and last, the girl is swimming past
the jetty, her sun-white back a small coast.