sand's infinitely solid, infinitely wide. Not a single grain skips or
blows—cemented, glued. The old folks stare, and the sand hardens,
absorbing secretions, drying to shell. Waves abuse it and can't make a
scratch. Now their seeing's silk, to wear down glass tabletops. The
seeing sea's impatient for effect. It beats the beach which was a natural
one, has become real property; hard-floor finish. Stop all stupid
pounding. Stop before it becomes embarrassing. It's already. The sea's
frothing and embarrassing.