A new surface settles, slow as sand in water,
sediment of memory, days without sea or trees
of pelicans, a great beam of wind tumbling across
oyster beds, kicking up white caps, leaning on salt
marsh, shaking out black mangrove, buttonwood,
as the being is not the body, shell, broken in time,
becomes beach, she entered a record of names,
all that could be remembered, never enough, she walked
into sunrise, sleepless, she listened to river, fish, tree,
she wrote into the space that became door, once opened,
a word of ocean, narrowing tide of distance and absence,
if only for a moment we speak as waves, of shell, wind,
sky, what we each hold broken, the relentless motion
binding us to these forms, a balancing hand in time.
Peach Delphine is a queer poet from Tampa, Florida. Former cook infatuated with what remains of the undeveloped Gulf coast and blackwater rivers. Delphine can be found on Twitter.