Names

If the sea is a cathedral, a tide pool

is a chapel. Sculpins dart under the wind

that blusters their cupped oceans.

Sculpted by wave on rock, their pockets of salt

grow thin from the rain, the suffocating

fresh water. Sculpin and hermit crab and limpet

endure the sea's absence, the lost comfort

of constant temperature, while the unconceived

sky drums the roof over their pooled world

with litanies of unbreathable torrent.

Christ, I have no praise for you.

Beyond saying a vodka-wrecked troller

and shacks the color of the desire to die, beyond

saying predatory snails that glide on their bellies

like the penitent, flexing their borers,

beyond saying seraphim that bicker exactly like gulls,

the shells that are my ears

sing no psalms except I can name

many small creatures in the world of a tide pool.

Christ, have mercy on all things that drown in air,

I have no praise for you. I say the tide:

Tide!

Tide!

Tide!

I say: Ebb!

Flood!

Ebb!

Flood!

I always start with "Ebb!"

I always end with "Flood!"