Littoral drift in Pomes and Epigrams

These thoughts
collect like sand against my right temple,
and spill out my ear, creating
a sweet little sandbar at my feet where I can pretend
that these things I think have a home.
Not a future, but a place to exist, where they are true,
and perhaps appreciated, just for one second.
Then rake them back into place.
Put the beach back the way it was.
I just want to be right about you.
I just want to be right about me.