Sacrilege

I could write about
the softness of clouds reflected on the stillness of water
the dismembered crab picked at by seagulls
the rust-encrusted ancient forgotten sewage pipe exposed by this minus-two-foot tide
wondrous continents of sand with ephemeral rivers and seas flowing

I could write about
the sun breaking through and winking at me among the ripples of sand

but then I would be tearing the moment apart
(as the seagulls tear the crab)

I would be deflecting
diffusing
avoiding
hiding from
this very THIS:

this never
repeated
gone-as-soon-as-it-appears

moment

but to call it “moment”

to call it

to call