daybreak, the end

civil twilight 6:47, sunrise 7:15 breeze
ripping clear through a hand like a sail
with a hole: flounder-dancing, going
nowhere quickly over the great gray
Atlantic (she never saw you); any place

I’ve been has filled with saltwater, a clean
trail of seaweed mops, the stuff of tears,
tide claiming another tired muscle: hush
now, scalloped shell; quiet now, jagged
edge and there’s a seagull cry for all we'll

never say, for an empty, torn claw but
if I could pry a hinge open like a starfish,
if I could stop this siren song, if sea glass
offered vision, if I could cross a wave of
time, if I had a sand dollar for every every