Water from a pitcher
over my open hands
before I speak a word.
Smell of burning hair—
too close
to the candle.
Lights are ships in starboard dark.
My breath close.
Waves toss against my window
leave a film of brine.
Rain steams as it touches glass.
Jonah in warm lifewater, limbs
curled in grace
that carves canyons from rain.
Third day: spit out startled.
Night falls over a moon-cut sea.
He wonders at the
salt dream in strange tongues.
Says he will look again.