In the Funland arcade I stood next to the sea. I lost every coin in my pocket but the sea kept winning money all afternoon.
Lend me a dollar, a dinar, a shekel, a groat, I asked. An escudo, a euro, a forint, a florin. A pound, a peso, a crown, a cruzeiro,
Lend me a Skanderbeg beggar’s quindarka, that I can play this game until the end. But the sea said nothing. Instead she knelt down and the money-child ran laughing into her arms.
Today the sea is dressed as a bride who wears black: a black train of ashes follows her down the aisle,
she holds black flowers that were picked at midnight on midwinter’s night. When she kisses me at the altar her tongue goes deep inside my throat blackening every word I’ve ever said.
Trust no one on the shore. Not the gull with its eye like a papaya seed, not the fishermen who come to judge, quiet as the crowd at the crucifixion.
Instead, we must dare the tide. We must dare the tide. No matter if it takes eternity we must count the roses within the rock pool and the rock pools within the rose.