Dead-white trees lay matted in the sand
Laying in wait, as nets
To capture the life of the salt
And sky.
The line between the sea and ground turns
And changes with every breath.
The sailor steadies his breath
Squints to see the grey sand.
His wrist turns
With strength to secure the spoil of the nets
Silver scales that mimic the sky
And the weight and smell of salt.
His hands are white and hard as salt
His thoughts short as breaths.
He knows the hard grey of the sky
The weight of the sand
The fray of the nets
The way the ocean threatens and turns.
The boat and sea take turns
Sending blows of water and salt.
Urgency glances from the need of the nets
To the endless necessity of breath.
Hazel eyes speckled like sand
Bargain with the tremulous sky.
The sailor knows the fume of the sky.
He turns
But finds no companion in the sand.
Images pierce his memory like salt
Stiffens a breath.
He finds himself knotted in nets.
Waves crash over him and restrain him like nets.
He loses sight of the sky
Loses prospect of breath.
He thrashes and turns
Till he is overwhelmed by the grey salt
And forced to return to the sand.
The sailor lies against the sand, caught in its glistening nets
Where the salt of the earth meets the salt of the sky
And waves and water turn to vapor and breath.
