Ricochets (Poem)

shifting pearl
grainy with tide, anemone –
luscious, littered with the hush of patient
sky-silver like silt, strewn with its waves
over our palm; nesting, sketched in ashes like the winds
down; and we are its shingle, poised –
mothlike, etched in light –

we are an afterimage:
inching over ebb, a sting of surf
on lips flecked with sky
roots and inside of an oyster-shell
song, wildflower blue from the blood
of dawn
polished by waves and reach
of weary lighthouse.
we have a fetish for stars, for tide and spines of sea
urchins clinging to hair, for rising, for
breath we have cherished these, like the splashes
of shingle cloud-reaped at the edge
of the moon’s shore. We are
diving from somewhere, from
a seam of white
in the sky’s
throat; we are a silver
of fledgling
index-tip grating
glass rim, taking flight
through shatterproof
horizons…”sculpt us
in tide, and let us be
your ashes, and we will hoard you
in our throat
like song, like breath, like rising…” “sing
us to nest with the wind
in a bitter sweet
entangling of wings with blaze, moth –
beached on a flank
of dust, breathing
a clamour
of streetlights…” we are
an afterimage, a ricochet
of still-life
photographs and white
and sketches

our hands are inky with river and sky
timber, and we are carving song
from driftwood

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