The waves only meet the edge
of the ocean in the middle
of the night in the still,
peaceless darkness. There is
death waiting, pushing
across the shoreline—
a dead bird, belly bloated, black-
and-white edge across its middle—
and only a dog has sniffed it
so far. It smells the notion
of our endings flying over
the open part of the sea and sky
where the land meets the other
craters and me. I watch the air
foam the water, even though
the pair seems to coexist in
the flat expanse beyond.
I might float for a little while,
imagining my toes leaving
the land, only to find my breath
as full of sand and salt as
the black-and-white bird’s lungs.
