what odd recurrences: I dreamt of the sea again

and us just talking, wave-tossed.

have you sailed, really sailed?

like sun-cracked lips and tongue-in-knots sailed,

not sure if you would jump toward sky or sea

if a voice like eternity told you, swim.

have you been overcome by the weight of it all?

I imagine something rests beneath us, sleeping,

larger than a universe, small enough to hold in your hand

and able to swallow you whole (though it won’t).

and were you to walk far enough southeast

you could slip through the fog into heaven and if the gods

resting out in the water sat up to stretch

they could speak like you and I do again,

tongue and cheek instead of mist

and high tide. mother of coast knows nothing

of flesh born from clay,

or from rib — she remembers crafting limb and skin

and laughter from what seafoam she had to spare. 

she sent us to the shore in sand dollars and shells,

each body a coarse and imperfect venus. now

she sends us home with the taste of salt on our teeth

and sand between our toes, saying, here,

have something to remember me by.

until the day we remember no more,

and return to her again.

all this, though, is distant. for now,

we talk. the ocean babbles at such frequencies

as to snatch from the air and put them

in your pocket, and in quietness we do the same,

as though nothing else could matter.

and nothing does; here, your hands are wet.

hold them to the sun to dry.