Image by Christopher Campbell.
winnowing treasures from the sea
her hands are coarse sand and
swirling shells crying
for the wind
as she turns the sun another degree:
“Look,” she says, “Look,”
without protest from the recess
of notes worn in threadbare hair
–remnants of hippie days, one supposes—
things my fingers can twist
merely into deeper shadow
like bare feet under summer maples.
–
Gradually, the tide takes us
our footprints carried into the waves
that we might walk on water
drowning only flesh
in the reflections
