a nymph

I call myself a grotesque inhabitant,

as I do not brush the sand from my skin.

Sun-swept, leaky, I come to sleep especially because I am tired.

Fresh ways to move side to side

and a choice about when I go to die

clog up the dreams,

though I do wake up and move around.

I celebrate the soft, the blooming, the undertow-

fall about in patterns with no righteous meaning.

I do walk past gnarled, growing, odd things,

and I do wish to be one myself,

even as I return to the severe wind

and to the tired soil.