The thin black water

The thin black water pulls away from your hands, slowly undressing itself from you across your arms and your hair washed forward and your burning eyes filled with the softened haze of white morning. It is not awakening. Things are not other things. Events are not other things. It is the water pulling back, leaving you. You are heavy and there is nothing to you. The heaviness is inside somewhere absent. Youve taken on water. The sand is damp underneath your body. You put your cheek in it and sink enough to leave a mark in the shoreline. You look up the beach to the dry sand warming full of light and bare white feet laced with succulent veins, green in a barren morning. Even with all of the false starts at day as it moves on naturally, it creeps. You inch through the twirl of the sun and unlacing of the clouds. When it is all moving over you and you lay or stand, rotating on all axes in liquid air, packed in smooth sand, it moves quickly and you know that as it passes you by you are being fixed in space with a gaze. An eyeless white head shines over you. The sand in your shadow is still damp. You are in my day.