These next few poems are from "Chorus," the middle section.
"Dear Missing."
"A channel by land that gestures and juts doesn't touch.
The water rushing shelters every sound I shout out into it.
The form of the shore is lost to the counting of sand.
The count is lost to the sound.
If I could, I'd rearrange us.
Shove selves, shell letters, shelve us.
Water surfacing itself inside ourselves, as ever as yours.