The ocean hushes and hums in my blood. The moon
takes up more of my eyes each night, swelling
sliver of revelation that turns and hides. What I want

to know is whether those luminous tendrils break
the surface. Why so fractional, this iridescence?
She brims and brims but cannot overflow. What

I suspect is this: the moon is a sibyl, whispers
what she does not fathom. She dresses in stolen
silk. She glides and foreshadows and slides away

at first hint of the eclipsing dazzle. What I see
glaringly: the sea rushes with every spray
of blue, green gleam of glass, break of cobalt,

bitter brine. The waters draw breath from the sun.
Yet the moon holds her tidal sway. Globes
of pearl take on the shimmer, waters pile high for her.

What I hear in the deep: she is royal messenger, gentle
ray, and what she speaks bends the burn, what she beams
flickers plunder, the little words of the sun I can bear.