They copy the curves of the waves, their hearts beat with the tides, and the saltiness of their blood coresponds with the sea.
They know that the house of flesh is only a sand castle built on the shore,
that skin breaks under the waves like sand under the soles of the first walker on the beach when the tide recedes.
Each of us walks there once, watching the bubbles rise up through the sand
like ascending souls, tracing the line of the foam, drawing our index fingers along the horizon
pointing home.
