Strung up
in the hard Djerban sun,
I chose you, my very fine
sea sponge.
Tiny grains of reef
still netted
in your feet,
I can tell,
like a shore-blown tree,
you grew
with the flow of the sea.
Even now, years later,
here in the shower,
you still smell oceany.
So different up close
from the desert I know,
more resinous, dark,
alive to the beetles
and pocket mice
who call your ancient creosote ring
home, who after rain,
when you’re starred with spring,
pattern the salt-earth
with their pattering
in this alluvial
shell of a valley
where the wind can’t help
but sing.