handfuls of clay

at Glen Cove the tide comes up like 
a strawberry field full of birds, they carry 
the distant boats on their backs. 
i turn to take a picture of 
the wooden stairs that lead down to the beach. 
i tell you, this is Gatsby's beach
even though it could have been any on 
the north shores of long island. 
i think it was this one because
it's so quiet & aching. the beach 
collecting dead branches to feel less vacant. 
sand turning to stone knuckles. naming
her joint-bones mars & moon & venus. 
sea weed against my ankles, the shed green walls
of a uterus. i imagine Gatsby here,
pants rolled up to his knees, white
button down shirt hanging on a tree branch.
he walks past me a few feet further.
i don't bother ghosts. it's best to
let them work. kneeling i watch as he
takes handfuls of clay & piles them
on one of the great big rocks that peer
out of the water like dulled irises.
i sit on one & it blinks. i wonder if
he was also a child of water, raising
his hands up to the waves & telling his
mother that he swayed them.
a great mansion grew between the trees.
it had old thick grey stones & a golden 
car to drive to the city in the afternoon.
when i ambled closer, i touched the walls.
they were slick & made of clay as well
& Gatsby was still out there, waist deep now
trying to build a man from the kaolin.
the clay would never hold long enough,
always tumbling back into the surf. 
the boats at a distance belong to no one,
they're made of paper & held up by a string.
if i'd taken a few more steps i'd have
found the houses looking out at the bay are
just railroad miniatures. i didn't want
to look at their smallness so i stepped back,
stayed in my place; water holding me
with her spattering tongue. a blue bucket washed up close 
but i didn't pick it up. i'm a firm believer 
in leaving things as you find them.
across the bay i could see no green lights
to mold american dreams out of, i watched as the clay 
man reached himself into the water again,
fingers melting & becoming small listless 
hunks of grey clay. Gatsby lit a cigarette
& the smoke turned blue & then red, bursting
with wings & beaks. he didn't notice
me that whole time. he didn't notice
anyone, just stared forward, intently. i'm not
even sure if he came here before, this might
be before the book & all, but he was here now. 
when done, he just put back on his shirt, unrolled
his pants & sunk underwater. with handfuls
of clay i too tried to make a man, only 
my man was smaller & wanted nothing at all. 
gently, i rubbed his face smooth & blank,
i pinched his arms into place. i wiped my
hands on my shorts, red dried blood stains.
he didn't stand though, not all the care 
in the world could hold him together,
first buckling at the knees & then scarring over.
the waves broke him like a host.
i took a piece in my mouth, chewing 
out of respect for the not-really dead. 
the boats shuttered & the tide rose,
spitting feathers. water-plumage.
i erased my thin avian foot prints
from the thin gravel shore.