If she could
find herself

in a secret ecotone
beside an island salt marsh
in time to wink
at the sound

tide as it drags sediment
into the estuary.

If she could confirm which direction
the wind blows

her mind. If she could swim
in the channel early enough
to witness another egret bend
down its long S-curved neck

to position its dagger
bill for spearing breakfast.

If she could convince
any of you this treading
through brackish waters
would not be worthless,

would not leave a foul taste
on the tongue.

If she could have carried
a little longer
without the body
betraying or being betrayed.

If she could pour enough sand
into her shoes

to keep from chasing away
all that ultramarine dusted
fear tucked into every beautifully
ruined littoral cave.

If she could just remember
the orange lichen’s impulse

to continue existing
on a lighthouse rock foundation
or faded gravestone.
If, then this feeling would be mutual.