by Heather Brennan

Tell me about how the clouds
look like suede. Like
rows of angel wings, arching
softly off toward the heavens

they came from. The boats scar the water
with their crossings, glistening snail-tracks
across another suede. Tell me
about how there are basking sharks here,

how I bet they’ve never seen
a sunset before. A slick head
surfaces, sees what it knows:
empty sky, sail. Humanity pooling

through time, we pirates, we dark
ferrymen. Every shell you’ve ever
plucked, fingertip-touched over its
glossy curves, has remembered you.

This earth remembers differently
than the sea. We all come to dust.
The sand covets us. One day,
I want barnacles to kiss 

the dust of me; I want them
to cover what crawled
out of the ocean and one day
came back.

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