Tapioca seeds and manatees,

the wind blows strong beneath the sea

and every strand of seaweed brings

a cupped hand of desert sand.

On the shore lies a painter’s hook

resting on a fisher’s brush,

and beneath them the tide swings.

Parakeets and kerosene 

float in ashes on the breeze,

and fall like burning snow to sand

that traces patterns of swarming ants.

Wood comes in honeyed scent

that combs itself into your hair,

and every tree has long been spent,

their ghosts of dust pulled into air.

In your palms is a future still,

through tired eyes and waves of sleep,

washing white water and windmills.

The foam has memories to keep,

of kerosene and manatees.