I know I should not trust the sea

by Stephanie Green

More sky than the sky, you paint
the air red as last night’s  hoolie,  
or this morning’s peely-wally, smooth

as beginning again. On a sunny day,
it’s hard to tell  if your lips taste
of waves or the wind;  the bite  of your salt.

You sparkle with silver, spend, spend,
vying with the oystercatcher’s pip, pip, pip,
and the qui vive of sand-flies.

In a rage, you find yourself
in the opposition of rock,
splinter into a ghost of yourself.

One and a half, maybe two hours
either side of low tide
you allow me to cross the isthmus to parley.