I lived down the ocean when I was young in Virginia,
and my parents used to take us to the beach.
The number of times that I have dreamt about the ocean
figured largely in our lives.
This is called, When Wishes Were Fishes.
Beyond your knees, that sailor's glass
boiled the kelp smelling sea.
There, the wind galloped in the tough grass
at the edge of the world, and our Sunday
wish at the edge of the world and sea,
was to bottle a dredged up jellyfish.
Seaweed and dead fish, fish and shells,
were lure in the grave of the sandy bowl.
The glistening arms of swimmers struck
sparks from the sun-charged air, and the whole orphanage
came down on the sand in a truck,
and old ladies were there for the cure.
All that clapping and smacking of gulls,
and that slapping of tide on rock,
our senses twined on the seas, gut string,
and the mother's cries, and the animals
that barked and charged.
And the young ladies in a flock who ran the soprano scale
and jumped the waves in a ring.