and I find myself susceptible
to flashes of light, soft water, detours
of current, the chill of sand
I’d never left a home
without leaving a note or
some responsible party behind
who would spread the word
the water trickles and
its rivulets make deep
cuts in the beach, sometimes
inches, mostly feet, and I
am required to step through or over
getting down to low to see
the breath holes of bivalves
the three-toed tracks
of birds, how bits
of each have been lapped
away by waves I see
some wholeness to
the world, down low
and looking up and it
is tan and brown and blue
and bright with air
Genevieve Kaplan’s work has recently appeared in or is forthcoming from Cherry Tree, POETRY Magazine, TinFish, and South Dakota Review. She is the author of (aviary), forthcoming from Veliz Books in spring 2020 and In the ice house (Red Hen, 2011), as well as three chapbooks.