I shine like a hairless fish,
or a tongue, but this is my pelt,
enclosing a secret’s cunning—
winters in dark surf have given me
the silhouette of a wave rising
or just-spent, and the cold ocean
utters me like a whisper.
                        The sand-shark
cannot catch me. The rip-fanged moray
I leave behind, and your gaze, too,
is always tardy as you call

to your companions, aim the camera,
steady the binoculars for
another look. In my
better-than-hands the stone-shelled
molluscis a morsel, and I pluck the flashing sand-dab
from her fathoms. I’m that name
you can’t remember, the language you forgot,
the hope you knew would never come,
tide departing to return.