Shallows

A lamp’s reflection makes this floor a universe and turnslimestone swirls into constellations and scratches into nebulae.

The flimsiest things renew us—wordless nothings,last breath of a lit match when it touches water,

a sea-swell in the picture window on a postage stamp,and lines bent in phantom waves on a remnant of moiré.

The cut edge unravels, trailing threads like wisps at the hairline.There’s ease in the palm tree’s shadow, and pleasure wading

shallow lagoons; underfoot, sandy bottoms in hard-palate-like ridges.Sandpipers ripple on land in waves at wave-edge played out in foam

breaking into archipelagos. There they go, flying, wing tip lit,skimming the rising wave that crests in mist as it falls.