A Million Tiny Chasms

Matthew Miller


Along the green gulf, frothy morning sands scuttle with

white crabs, nervous zigzags who draft faint tracks in the first

light, disappear in shallow hovels. My youngest drags his heel

backwards, thwarting pinched escapes. Ghosts dig tunnels

at night. He shudders with what might live within. So, we fill them,

and the sun heaps heavy breath on miles of beach ahead.
