I looked for a page with water and waves,
but it took four weeks to reach the shore
where crabs and starfish dig their graves
with one last heaving bubble, no more.

The warranted truth is a wind by the sea,
blowing trough all that there is.
He is lodged in his ritual with a tree
she has ignited with gulls in a kiss.

The salt that leaned in the winds direction
clawed for yet more unwritten attention,
leaving crest water’s dark resurrection
in a diver’s sudden and wet ascension.