Water stretches between hills of dust, marsh of salt.
Thick kelp clusters—bobbing, swirling, drifting with
several easy ducks on this lustrous ruddy body—

Filling myself — cold, placid — a blubbery friend joins
shouting her praise of everything comes to rest
in this dark, liquid place.

She calls me to swim — center of the bay. I’m who
names things — no good words surface. Thumb
and forefinger, picking clear plastic with icy

Fringe. Naming it garbage—floating to center.
Tangling hair in debris, sensing weight in slime
under my neck. Stinking, dragging myself onto a

Muddy shore. On the other side, reaching the chill
marinade of the ocean. Hot, I plunge into rocky tide.
Teen-aged children awaiting me— shadow puppets

Decorated with bits of bird feathers— white fur.
Faces— daguerrotypes restored behind a painted
red facade.

Sunday morning— children drinking margaritas,
eating corn on cob. My friend finds us,
requests quarters for a pay phone.

Where does the dream begin— my telling end?