The Dessert

The salt-tide recedes through the floorboards of sleep,

Leaving a residue, pale, wide, and deep.

A sun made of buttermilk hangs in the haze,

Melting the edges of forgotten days.

Upon a white plate—or an island of bone—

Sits the geometry of the unknown.

Crust of crushed saltine, a seabed of dust,

Holding together by memory and trust.

A siphon of citrus, a tear from the gale,

Whipping the canvas of a ghost-laden sail.

It shimmers surreal where the dunes meet the mind,

Leaving the weight of the mainland behind.

Cut me a slice of the horizon’s pure arc,

Glowing like phosphorus out in the dark.

To taste it is time turning backward to foam,

Where the Atlantic rolls in, and the palate comes home.