This is my coast my shore. The sea crashes, shapes, heaps, carries away. My coast. My shore. Here a wrecked shipman would long for fresh water and hot food. I weep salt and speak-sputter wet wood. My house is built apocalyptic on sand there is no rock here. Shifting sands. Nomad- I of miniscules, foot by foot my house moves, between dune and shore.
The jewels of my country are secreted. Secrete/secret the thick glossies that mollusk thumbs fist. Spiraled, scalloped, with fishy smells. A captain landing here would find no treasure except what the ocean will break and cleanse. My wealth is all paper on a standard of feathers and shell. I’m worth nothing without irrational faith.
Here no ships but maybe. Here no sails but maybe, too far for hawk-eye to see, one trawls, nets too knotted and tangled to sail home. Better to be a boatman in the hollowed trunk of a tree, steadying his gaze, hand to a spear. Better skim the deep waters armed with knives and spears, sharp and precise, than drag behind a powerful vessel indiscriminate nets.
Feed me. I will eat gold kernels out of my hands and sea eggs, grey yolked. No more nets, knotted and tangled, in constant need of mending, They dredge the dark living sea dusts up I will not feed on its bottoms.
Gold grain and grey yolks. Feed me things that might be born. Feed me the raw germ of wanting-to-be-born.