BEACH STONE SUN
Wet stones reflect
sun until waves snuff
them like clouds overtaking the moon—
an upgush of ocean hefts the orbed skies
out of rest, drops them on the inhale
in chock-clack glissandos
of pebble mutter.
Grumble before the tide-frothed sea foam,
anemone, driftwood and tumbled shell,
the long tubes of bull kelp,
bulbs the size of a fist,
knuckles and cuticles
pummeled down smooth, orbicular.
The sun goes and the stones
dim back to stones,
the cobbled beach smoothes
into silhouette under squadrons
of stars that suicide into their reflections.
Wield yourself like a salt water
blood magnet. Tempt
waves sewing themselves
to sky along a horizon seam—
wash the stars from your skin.
Silt settles in the cavity where the purple
muscle of your heart glugs and glugs.
Your body builds itself around that seed
again and again. Calcium packs
around a grain in an oyster’s wet dark.