The young girl sends breath and spittle through a plastic ring
into rainbowed probes, which rise, swerve with the birds
gorgeous and drowning
at every height.
The blunt arrowhead of pelicans is so quick that following it she almost falls
and I’m just about to my feet to do I have no idea what,
catch her? Soft.
Now she wanders
around the lazy pinks, browns, with sunglasses and books, seaweed and hair and skin
growing one from the other and inside each dark overlap and fold,
more folds, dark coiling and
into rivulets of shadow, then triangular pools. She disappears
then is there in the sea, not so fast: soft, soft goes the sea,
which shoves her, calms,
shoves her back towards
the triangles and circles. She gives herself to be turned over and washed up.