With the seashell wash wave there
all the small ones with names like carpals, sesamoid, phalanges
can at last intertwine and rest there mistaken for fish spine
among the debris of the ocean’s sigh.
I remember you with that strange spongey swimming cap
in white flotsam feet up longing out your body to the sea’s
in and out green and glassy
clean like eyes and wild like hair.
When they come to pick over my life like gulls
(scaphoid, lunate, triquetral, pisiform)
can they see in every reflected surface
how we would laugh together and pass it from wave to wave
until we surfed them home?