diver

surfacing through
greenswell, hefting
his netted finds aboard

the deck tilts.
nothing ever
washes away.

somewhere
in all these shells must be
the nacre-smothered grain
for which he bursts
his lungs.


later, beached,
the tops of his toes
skinned by his rubber fishfins,
sand crusts with blood and wounds
are roughly mortared closed.

tomorrow he will open them afresh.


later still
while casting for bait,
he is stabbed by memory

of a time when bright steel was enough.