Matter of course—the bandaging
water performs for itself, as
jitter of light across its face.

Natter on, says the sand to the waves. We’re your
xylophone and no
knotter can tie us together. We’re your
zither, say clouds to wind, your
plotters of courses, your
tethers, tenders, traders.
Hotter by the grains of sand, we burn the soles of your
daughter. She’ll stay back,
even unthirsty, or unwound. Waves
chatter—messages foam each to each,
uttering what they know, like candles
guttering, burnt-ended, like any
yearning they believe
rather than breaking. They
quiver rather than swimming, caught by each
other at the edge, at the edges, which
bother the shores and the banks, which
shatter whatever we know of place, of land. They curl, fall,
lather against what can’t be pure, one nature.

Vector of fruit, ice, fish, grain, pulling water up, each
another tideline, where the people bathe and fall. Water
interred between grains of shell, glass, bones, coral, crystal.
Father, this is where I have hidden the skins.