I went far past the dunes, passing through
a net of kelp that kept breaking, water the color
of pelt, a breathing lung. The spit of sand dislodged itself
and all of its purple seeped out. These were the latter days,
struck down with change, when we remembered nothing, left
boxes unopened then moved on, too entirely undone.
Did my shading grow fainter, the half yellow of half
of a sunflower? Each minute seemed to skim the surface,
our words just circled back on themselves, notched
in the wood again and again, until the grooves turned
into channels and we flooded out. Everything was
swallowed by the distance. But then again, everything was
shadow and iridescence, flickering through filtered
light, wet and heavy. The trawlers combing the
bottom of the ocean turned out to be another myth
and we were left on the shoreline.
I had believed it was all in good faith. But structures had given way
to a current that grew fat with time, like something
I could raise or raze.