The ocean wants to suck up the sun’s sins
 by immersing the sun in the profundities
 of its floor with the promises
 of beautiful coral reefs and starfish,
 so the frigid water can expiate its fire—
 
 the sun’s scorching desire to singe
 the lighter pigmented flesh,
 the sun’s narcissism that conceals
 smaller stars,
 the sun’s thirst for evaporating
 juices from delicious fruits—
 
 with the crustaceans clawing
 craters in its body.
 The sun comes back up after a salt-rich rest,
 a luminous, but not overbearing, combination
 of anorthosite and basalt, and it can cool
 the seared skin,
 reveal the stars, 
 preserve the nectar.
 
 I tiptoe around the broken seashells,
 hesitantly swim towards our foreboding
 horizon, and there you wait to better me.