Kenotic Dreams

The low tide offers a fresh feast of treasure
peppering the sandbar in slow ripening light. The
beach belongs to them on mornings like this— 

to the likes of this gutted crab, offered up on her back,
breeze whispering through her legs such that she treads
slowly along the clouds. I could swear she is alive despite
her weightless emptiness. Who am I to say if she is living,
or dead? 

I reach the pontoon, marvel at waterlogged
planks steaming in the morning sun, their
watery weight curling up as vapour and melting
into the sky. 

Afterwards, I lay myself down in the coarse wet
grain, imagine that I too can yield. That these legs,
too, can be carried by the breeze and into the light.