Lines for a starfish

Five fingered fist, crawling uncomfortably like so
Where goes
No joints that connect, no sinew that holds
The sand is dry, isn't it?
And itchy.
But the sea has receded
Preceded the death wave
That must wash over the island soon.
Fear must be felt, not talked of,
Damn the diplomacy
Will the apathy go?
Maybe not, definitely so
Slow, go, no, woe
and alas, the water must redeem the banks.