The great crime of your heart is wetness.
If you were unflinching, a height of dry land,
I could admire how you protect your sands,
but you sink to meet the tide
and let your ruin soak through.
And the gulls on your shore
get their wings drenched-
they can’t fly from you
but they won’t fly for you, either.
Their chemical mouths shrill out
choke out those bubbling secrets
of their water-boarding king,
the mermaids and fishermen alike
hear the cries and turn their backs,
and you wake to more murdered birds.