There is a growth that hurts the child
one was, the child who still knew
the ocean rock from a distance,
flocked like cloth, white like sugar,
a flower out of focus in the waves,
the waves, the thousands of horizons
seen again and again as blue Japan--
something that changes the freighters
twined with lights and evergreen
in the port of Seattle.
I remember being nowhere in the early light,
halfway over ocean to a northbound freighter
and walking back to my sister
where our white wood caught fire
in the white sand.