Marshes stretch beyond
stone structures, weathered
arches, foundations.
Trees are short and few, spiny living
a dry life.
I take a dusty path
worn, scraped through the rolling land,
on my way to the pool, but on a tour,
in a gallery,
a neighborhood of no one.
Structures that housed people now
stand as art. Not found
art, like paint chipping from a back
gate under
weight of age and
acid rain.
Placed art, realized, praised.
Black lines frame
doorways and squares on solid
white-washed walls.
And then the pool.
Others have already found it
warm not stagnant within
high sand walls
rim lined rust brown
holding tightly against the sea beside.
Wash-over water contained,
clear enough but not domesticated
de-mineralized.
I step from the grassy border,
swim through the shallow hint
and into the deeper.
I live inside some other creature –
not a mere pelt but
a warm red inside speaking
to water pressure –
I know what it is
to be a slick-skinned swimmer
singing of the glide, the slight surface lip yield
the deaf delay below.
First Words from a Sea Bird 