Aquamarine

Salt—
     a grain of disbelief,
     a cleanser of wounds.
     I swim in salt water across lanes—away
     from the groove of illusion.

Awake
     I must go to the sea,
     my skin tricked out in leopard spots.
     Diatribes wander my meridians,
     my water and wood, my metal and fire,
     my scapula, my little finger.
     A baby bird tips its head back, agape.
     An embryo feeds through an umbilicus,
     an apple in its crop.

Risen
     I follow the zig-zag lanes down to the aquamarine.
     The sun is an apple sweetening the morning.
     Clouds fall from my eyes.