High tide sloshed the caverns
of my imagination since
the beginning.
I dreamed of living in a sandcastle by the sea,
for a breeze to stir my moping wind chimes
like a carousel, loping.
For some salt to farm for my shaker,
sifted from the colander
and tossed erratically to seasons
springing and falling.
I wonder if the popsicle-stick pier
can still support the toddling weight
of my autumn age;
that cherry wood that baby teeth split
cracks deeper under flopping fish
and I am too tall to ride.
The fishermen, too, are tethered to the wet
at the teetering border.
Paper boats are too soggy to leave the bay.
It’s almost like the sandpaper between my toes
and the blue ball pit gulping my waist
and the squirrels dragging their shells over to me
to wash their windows
were not meant to be.
