We watch the waves crest
and tumble, playing,
fragmenting quickly into jigsaw
puzzles, bubbles dancing on our
fingertips, outstretched
as the sun soaks
through our skin so deep
we're replaced by solid light,
and the corners of our mouths
soar up above the seagulls,
and the swells in the distance shimmer
like night-time's looking glass,
predicting
the movements of the stars,
and there's something about
the easy breath of the sea,
the energy and rhythm,
that makes us feel like running
unbound, and when we return
with tousled locks of sun-dried hair,
our skin sticky sweet, saturated
with layers of salt,
our socks made of sand grains
that tickle our toes,
pockets full of sea-stones
and oyster homes
and smooth glass, bottle green,
the color of daydreams and kelp,
we know, despite miles
of asphalt and cumulus clouds, despite
time-tolled memory,
that our ocean never leaves.