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.