In the sand at the edge where salty tongues lap at earth,
the cliff where poems can wander and teeter recklessly off:
I lay down where the sand is as gray as brooding clouds.
Flat, pulled by gravity and suctioning air.
What if, with scissors,
I dragged my hand across the horizon,
at the place it severs life in two?
I would fold the world inside out,
pop bend mold
and the sky would be the sea
and the sea would be the sky.
Finger marks in the sand like claws,
but really I cling to clouds,
and that blueness—it's water.
The sun does not set but rises,
and the sea shimmers colored condensation,
teal, navy, purple, plum.
My skin is burnt amber from static electricity.
The clouds are coral and sponge and foam.
I could spit into the sea like God sending rain.
My tears could raise the ocean and wipe out the sky,
and turn life into a bloated bowl of water
that would burst and flood the universe with melting dew.
If I made an angel in the sand,
would I be a star in the galaxy?
Five points of light rushing past your eyes?
The stars beneath me would be fish,
swimming by merrily,
riding jet streams in black, solid water.
If I could fold life in two,
I'd fold it so the half with me
was always kissing the half with you.