The evening carries the sea inland, too far for an unbroken flight. An anomaly in the history of tired salt has left the field between us littered with stars.

But I know your voice can carry anything, always nearer, even a decoction of night’s tide.

In this tincture of birdsong and salted darkness, I dream of calf skin and sirens, of metal confused between rust and bone, and I dream of a secure embrace, the only relief in a whirlpool thick with intersections.

I wake and reach again for the heft of sea breath, the abrasion of shore in my lungs. But faith is closer in the night, when the unbelievable knows its certainty. The day comes and replaces the ocean’s perfume with a word.

Outside, no seabirds, no biting brine. Only a sparrow, skipping his song across the pickets.