By the lighthouse, my face:
on the whorl of a shell.
A shell’s cavity, not mine—
its murmur, like weather gathering into your hearing,
not mine, never mine—
a thought of sea followed by the question of land.
Shoal end juts out—
a leg severed. Rock wall and water wall.
Prove to me
you are animate:
drive this spade into sand. (Skin, chafing,
all the color there is.)
In my throat—
salt, salt, salt, and the asking for salt,
till flesh loosens to haze.
Dear one, ghostling, stay close
as we wade into water.