Here I am
             staring at a photo
             of a beach
saturated with neon blue phyto


             They shimmer
              like bluebells, like
              laughter. I stare

              at this photo
for hours
              like a target
              to toss darts


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
             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





            into the vast space



                     of sky.