Bring me first a gasp of hope,
an indrawn breath propelled by
one of those tropical currents
that startle swimmers in colder seas.
Next, tell the west wind to scoop us
into one of your Chagall worlds where
lovers glide through echoing shadows
and safely waltz on candlefire.
Then we will keep moving, to that place
where all low tides get dragged —
to shorelines loved by driftwood ghosts,
dancing and breathtaken, outside the winds.