March 20th
On this blank page of beach
without shells or kelp
we were two brushstrokes
against gray water, white sky.
When I stepped in
the ocean tasted my feet,
the edge of the continent.
I was twenty; I could imagine
four thousand miles to Madagascar,
a life that big.
On this blank page of beach
without shells or kelp
we were two brushstrokes
against gray water, white sky.
When I stepped in
the ocean tasted my feet,
the edge of the continent.
I was twenty; I could imagine
four thousand miles to Madagascar,
a life that big.