Light a small fire beneath
the tightest clam
and eventually its lips will sigh open
neatly expose
satin flesh.
Emerging with a shrug
your stingray-coloured stone
makes whale song.
Sand like liquid slate glaciers out.
Walked on it subsides, forms puddles, ox-tongue-pliant.
In this place
the first people
interned their dead.
Did the tide massage them free
canoe
remains to the waiting horizon?
Or were they lodged deep in sea-scooped caverns
dragon-eyed shells glittering and suspicious?
Sea garnerings have middened
found safety
in shuttle shelves.
Walls cortex squirm
surround-sound
-the hum
of unbirthed
thought.
Salt spray kisses darkened under eyes
ventolins lungs
strokes constricted throat.
I would like to meditate here.
Wait
till the tide comes
and I turn.
