where orange danced with red

the sea streamed from your hair

in my dream

as you rose from the ocean,

planting yourself on the beach

as if nothing in the entire

history of the world

had ever been planted

by cross-pollination

or wind

or a gardener’s steady hands;

your shaking head

shook pearly droplets

from your hair; I watched

them fall, each a kingdom

crushing and reforming,

both calm and panicky

until the droplets struck

the sand and relaxed

in the potential retirement

amongst children’s castles;

the waves crept up,

covering your prints

as they darkened sand

and formed barriers

near shells and driftwood

like aged sailors’ faces;

suddenly I wished I’d

taken all those classes

to know whether chiaroscuro

might be achieved among

the glancing rays of the sun

in the beyond where

orange danced with red

and only black felt abandoned

somewhere in the past.