The Sure-Footed Spot
The sand is made of pulverized clocks,
ticking softly beneath bare feet,
while turquoise waves—liquid amethysts—
unfold in slow, quiet sheets.
The horizon is a zipper, undoing the sky,
releasing emerald birds that fly backward.
A lighthouse stands on one leg, painting the fog
with brushes made of jellyfish foam.
Driftwood sculptures walk toward the tide,
humming tunes that have no name.
Glass bottles drift, filled with tomorrow,
and their corks sealed with twilight.
I sit on a chair built of frozen music,
watching the sunset swallow itself.
The moon, a pale mirror, drops from the deep,
and the ocean, in its immense, surreal sleep,
breathes in—and the beach becomes stars.
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