We are sunburned and getting married,
slowly, all of us.  We bring a beer
into the shower thinking we could live
out the rest with sand in our hair.
We look at age, collected among the shells
and sea glass — when Sean breaks a chair
and falls onto the deck, we all say
He wasn’t even leaning over
and gather the oversized splinters
into piles we thought would be larger.
In the late afternoon we go to
the shore, looking at what could be
a continent on the other side,
the promise of old keys,
terrified of being pulled in.