There was never an ocean where we lived,

only the blueness of a cast-iron town and people.

I would stand by the window as a girl, listening to the nocturne my father pulled like the tides.

When the colors change it’s the people who fall

to their knees.

It’s the unclothed trees

that your arteries perform.

All things molt, some things simply wither.

When I was afraid of storms my father played the piano

with his foam fingers.

To this day the foam of an ocean sounds

like his hands.