Beachcombing 

First a scallop shell for holding
in your pocket, what lived in its
mineral shine, a tongue without words.
You finger its stories. I oozed. I was a dab
of muscle, a heart with a hundred eyes,
artist, alchemist, pilot of tides. Can you
leave this? Shoes filling with sand,
you set your feet free. Now salt water,
amber foam, part of a pier with rusted nails,
a surf scoter washed with kelp, her eye paring
sky to a pale blue point. It's time for you
to start leaning into the sea. I snap photos,
digital images, mix of math and memory.
Ahead of me, framed in spray and the jut
of Trinidad Head, you become simply
the shape of a man.