Wednesday Evening on Biloxi Beach
The sun relinquishes its burning grasp
On the beach of Biloxi.
On an easing wind southerly,
Floats the last low gasps
From the swimmer trodding ashore
east of Buena Vista.
A tourist, relaxing on a renovated pier,
Looks at the last of the sun and lapses
into a maundering mood,
Understanding that a life must not be lived out within a day.
An O"Day grabs the last shreds of wind
As it enters the Biloxi harbor.
Butch waves a parting to Al aboard the Bristol 27,
ending the informal race.
The western sands of Deer Island accuse like a finger
as the sun dies with its sins.
In the gray after of the sunset,
A girl, in cut-off jeans and a halter,
And her Irish Setter walk near
the Lighthouse of Biloxi;
And wavelets cuddle up onto the beach,
Resembling a tired child lying down to rest
having been in the sun since morning.
A mullet flings itself from the Sound
as if in a final salute.
Its scales glisten in the lights of land.
And now, some diners on Fisherman's Wharf
Tell of being hard aground
Out at Ship Island and mutter curses
at "shifting sands."