Hole in the Heart of the Country

bare catalpa trees
drape across the sandbar
my hand burrowing into
the grainy moisture below
grasps the ocean
waves rise from the hole
whitecaps foam
over my arms, knees, thighs
sucking me down
through a trail of seaweed
to coral city Santa Monica
where I am forever nine, tan
braver than the tidal wave
that one day washes me up
through a hole in Kansas sand
beached and breathless
salt scales spraying into the wind
as I climb the bank
cradling a handful of wet sand
two thousand miles across the pasture
to the house where I shake
the scent of seaweed from my hair
the ocean still whispering
in my argonata ears

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