Sex of the beach

She was
made of
Sand.  She was sand.  Sandy to her hair 
which grew
and fell.

Her legs
were the sand          not legs.
From her belly-button down
a beach,
a soft beach where     
he couldn't help but
want                      to curl up
and press                his head.

The sea,
the tide,
wanting to know her face because
on every side she's hidden, she has    
let her hair down,   
                    lying there because
he is already in the sand, already
asleep and sound, evenly spreading
his hands,
her hair.

                                   He dreams
of rivulets cascading, sandy beads,
patterns in her
moving skin,

moving down for gravity, towards 
him                              mounding
at the hips and              spreading       
from her pebbled groin       where 
he's been drawn.         she strokes
under                 beautiful hair, he
ebbs          pressing to the furthest 
wet                                  abrade.