The Foundation


The only sandcastle on the whole beach
is unmindful of who it is.
Hands built it.
Small hands. Or created it
out of sand created out of the mind of who?
And out of salt water
sliding back into the ocean as if building back
into a wave.

All this
means nothing, perhaps,
is likea detail in a movie that no one has seen
can’t see, shrouded 
as it is
and as the movie is
in cinematography and human costumes, 
or like
an undescribed image
in a missing book missing
a vital word,
“castle”
or “sand”. 

Is it
medieval 
or timeless? 
It speaks for itself, as they
who are
no one say.

And then a child
comes as if into the camera frame
to see, and to not see,
his handiwork, her handiwork.
Two identical hands,
and then four identical
ankle-high walls, 
like the foundation
of endless skyscrapers,
no, degenerated sand,
no, broken brain waves
that no one has heard of,
that everyone has heard.







About the Author:
Douglas Nordfors received an MFA from The University of Virginia in 1991, and has published poems over the years in Quarterly West, The Iowa Review, The Seattle Review, Poet Lore, The Hampden-Sydney Poetry Review, Poetry Northwest, and many others, and recently in several online journals, including The Monarch Review. He's published two books of poems, Auras (2008) and The Fate Motif (2013).