On this beach of smashed shells,
and sunning pebbles,
for you I dig
a Sisyphean pit, that trickily floods
with buried sea and tiny darts of life.
Then, while the walls inevitably
collapse over my burrowing hands,
I naively dwell on nurturing journeys
and the illusion of destinations.
***
I sometimes take long ocean swims,
almost sightless save
for the opal opacity below
and the dizzying rush of light,
as I drink in a breath
on every three stokes.
There are inexplicable pockets of cold,
and the currents play games with
time and space.
The sea is more volatile than it
looks from the beach.
***
Lying next to my grandparents’ pool,
circa early eighties:
filter humming and every now and then,
the Aquanaut would climb the walls
to slurp in air like a lungfish before
slipping below the surface.
Breathing into the crook of
my folded arms as my head rested on my hands;
my hips pressed sharply into the hot slate,
while water striders once again jigged their way
over the calming water.
