The wind turns grass into italics,
saying See? Do you see?
Even mountains fall gracefully
like a red bucket emptied
of rain. This morning in Chile
a million sardines washed up dead.
They appeared thankless, without jobs.
The waves crashed through the night
to get there: arms open, grabbing
the sand. Do you see? The TV says
this is mating season and—
sorry, I switched channels.
Like a poem begins and ends
before learning to crawl on its own.
Maybe the ocean is nothing
except the sound of being born.
You must remember, don’t you?
The cold air hitting your skin?
The hands you fell into?