At low tide,
I scrub my windows
with clam nectar,
sweep my floors
with spiny scrub brush
kelp.
I skip bleached bones
along waking
white-capped sea,
scoop billions
of splintered shells
into a calcspar cup.
I toast green bellied waves
crashing onto shore,
spilling buckets
of icy frothed milk
washing my feet clean,
trickling back to sea.
I boil mussels
over driftwood flames,
sip sea air
while salty tide
ebbs and flows
like an old friend
I sleep on a bed
of eel grass,
hair twisting
into a black tangles
while dreams ripen
into plump bracts.
