I don't write.
I skim
the surface of
dark waters;
I hover
over a sea,
contained and
bound, that pulses
against my skin.
I imagine a skiff
skimming the sea,
blowing its hair
back in its wake.
But I don't write.

Nothing feels quite beautiful
(like the yellow waves
of early morning on open waters,
free and flowing
like mermaid hair).
Everything here
is driven by an undercurrent
beating against a shrinking shore.

I don't write
because I can't see to.
I see desert
and evaporating salt water
and a dark always evening
and a tiny boat
that will soon be resting
on the floor of a sea
that once was brimming and full
but now is sand.

"Sand is easier
to walk on than water,"
I say.
"No one sinks
in sand anymore."
Better to rest my bones
in the sun
than sink silently
into a quiet black sea.