The Poet

I touch the bottom of the ocean

while I sleep, he said,

I grab great handfuls of white sand,

my hand an animate coral

that the pink and blue flitting fishes navigate.

And sometimes—with this he smiled—

when the moon is an empty 'O'

wailing in the night for her star-daughters

lost to brighter lights, I can hear

the waves whisper wonders in her ear

with the hopes that she will forget.

He said, I touch the bottom of the ocean

while I sleep.