Warmest regards, Laguna,
Ink of the tide on my skin;
I folded the sun in your letter,
Now the moon keeps singing within.
Foam writes our names on the breakwater,
Then erases—no need to stay;
Every salt spark that drifts from the harbor
Is a postcard I’ll never repay.
So here’s my applause in a seashell,
Pressed to the ear of the stars;
Whenever the waves ask about you,
I’ll answer with guitars.