At night I find a patch
of asphalt,
concrete,
a flat, open rock.
I mark a circle with mason's string.
I draw it with chalk.
I sleep while five
butter candles burn in jars.
I am purple, orange.
I warp and flicker with the flames.
One day,
they tell me,
I will reach the ocean.
I will find chips of green glass
worn round as coins,
coves made porous by fingers of spume,
husks of strange creatures.
I will see the sun emerging
from the water
bright and prime
the waves rife with gold leaf
gulls wheeling through the teeth of that hot
hemisphere yet arising
unscathed, crying.
