Here, it is impossible to
think of anything but the ocean,
impossible to write of anything but the ocean,
so impossible, in fact, that the sky itself
has turned into an ocean I sit at the
very bottom of – the wispy clouds above me
the foam of waves too far away to
pull me off the ground and into their currents.
My body is a kite and the riptides above
want only to lift me up by my strings
and swallow me into their salty dreams.
Perhaps this is the reason we don’t fly;
throw a girl to the wind, and she might be
be lost forever to that high, deep, faraway blue.