I draw a star in the sand with my brother’s index finger.
I tell him “It is mine.”

Father reminds me I cannot possess the world
I invent if I use someone else’s nail.

Waves splashing on rocks, and I’ve been meaning to ask:
When waves crash, do they die

and go to heaven? A sudden change,
for a snail, is movement that takes place

under three seconds. There are no fingers
on snails, and you will not see them

drawing octagons in the sand claiming shells. Here
it matters who can smile, wave, or bow.

“What world, dad? It is a drawing on the ground.”
At night, my brother comes out

holding a candle. He sleeps on the shore
beside his world. He finds at daybreak

half imprinted on his face. The other
half rolls back on soiled rocks.