I get up when the light splashing through the window is still gray
with tendrils of night; I am slowly asphyxiating on stale air
and sour speculation, stewing alone in my bedroom
until I am pulled outside by the call of gulls.
The salt-laced breath of the sea slaps at my cheeks
and tangles through my hair.  The dunes are crusted
with morning ice; their balding heads collapse around my ankles
as I step once, twice.
The bones of conchs, clams, and crabs bite
into the tender flesh of my toes
as my feet kick up a summerfull of memories,
images of you and me flinging our smiles at each other.
My breath makes white latticework against the horizon.
My gaze skitters,
trapped in the rise and fall of the swollen tide.

And I wonder:
Did your brittle bones piece off
into shards of pearls?
Or did the cartilage and marrow
bleach and amalgamate
into pox-marked coral, nibbled by fish.
Or are you still out there
with your lungs filled with seawater,
your eyes staring upward,
you limbs sugared with sand?