A Series of Movements:
       

And with each step tile
lays out before me. It

pushes from the grass
clean without streaks. When

I change my path, the tile
keeps ahead. I walk it

over traps. Through the court-
yard. Around puddles and

manholes, straight into the
ocean where the water grabs

deep for the buoy line. After
every small movement, my

toes reel against the dry, caulk-
colored flooring. I stand still as

possible for what feels like many
minutes: terns and wrens picking

my side for red clams, the tide washing beach
up hard to my knees. Bent back from the

waist, the birds
fill me with shells until

my throat won't close. I cough like
a night bell of Spanish maracas. A hall to dark

sea stays waiting below. My fingers are
boneless. I can't scratch my neck.

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Copyright © 2011 Daniel Khalastchi All rights reserved
from Manoleria
Tupelo Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission