I make a hole and the ocean leaks out, a thin dribble
of primordial fluid, full of tiny fish and baby sea bats.
If I put my finger over the hole, they’ll be trapped under my skin,
imprisoned under my flesh, sealed in under new scabs.
I make a bigger hole and seals nose their way to the surface,
shark fins cut through briefly and swirl around the opening,
a whale song echoes through my veins. I clap my hand
over the emerging biosphere, tell them I’ve changed my mind
about setting them all free.
Until it Rains
The sunset catches the bits of broken glass in the sand
makes them glitter like sharpened emeralds and sapphires
sudden flashes of light in the growing shadows of dusk.
The shards were full-sized bottles yesterday, smashed now against the rocks
I think we were angry. Tonight, I’m not sure.
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