Some Inland Curse

Frank says there is always the Gulf.
He lives with its tides
closer and further,
depends on the low constant hum
of salt and spray.
Always the Gulf.

Frank stands on his deck,
surveys the horizon,
sunlight and seagulls,
distant clouds, faraway fronts.
He is unable to descend past his sea oats,
a step too far.

The water wall that could take it all away
in a late-summer rage of pressure, wind, and currents
lies before him, a vast blue bed
where he can dream all day long.
But not now.
He stands. He waits.

That nature is forbidden,
that calling just beyond the sand
where dry becomes wet, white becomes emerald.
Hands and feet bound by something in the air,
smaller than a puff of wind,
yet more expansive than any body of water,
some inland curse threatens to take his breath away
forever.

The tide rolls in. The tide rolls out.
The water is constant before him,
always the Gulf.