Here I am
staring
staring at a photo
of a beach
saturated with neon blue phyto
plankton.
They shimmer
like bluebells, like
laughter. I stare
at this photo
for hours
like a target
to toss darts
at.
Except, I can[not]
throw darts.
My biceps are atrophied.
Some days
I can hardly lift my hands.
It isn't that I can[not] imagine
the orange sand
offset by the lights bleeding
into
the ink\jet sky.
It isn't that I can[not] capture
the whale breath
of the ocean, full of brine
and baleen, or the single sea lion
sleeping like an overturned yogurt cup.
What bothers me is
my toes [can]not slip into the water
and feel the iridescent ghost
seep into my skin,
without being carried to the edge.
I [can]not splash in the waves,
or scatter the neon dust
without someone's hand holding my head
above the water's gray grit.
Instead I imagine
myself floating
in the constellations swirling
through the waves as they recede
back
into the vast space
of sky.
