it’s dawn and you’re lying at the edge of the sea, body flat and timeless, painted with water stains
on your belly I imagine houses, little villages, my family’s old trailer park, with its moldy peaches and low voices
where you could look across and see women peeling potatoes under dim light.
you sprinkle sand across my face and our world pixelates. neat squares are built, then smeared,
with liquid moonstones. the sand cakes you, a gray- blue clay. the sun’s leaking pink, gold. a confetti
of moths pool onto the sea, elegant and white. from far