The last house of all the houses
is Topside, a tall blue boy on stilts,
shading the cracked cement
carport’s sandy assemblage:
shack-shower and scaling board, a scatter of spades
to dig to China.
The China-blue of the sky
dishes the sea.

Not a sea, an ocean. Not Pacific—
no family rentals are. But Atlantic
as Atlas, groaning under
summer’s burden,
on the Outer Banks of
an American memory.
The beach is where families come
to be broken, worn down, sandblasted.