Zachary Grasso

A smooth trance dreams and schemes in shades of gray
behind me, behind the colors of clear
water, sandbars rolling beneath the waves.
I pull in air and dive to find my ear

an instrument that some soft-bodied death
has left behind, something to help me hear
my sound pass through my ear canals like breath
caught in cupped hands to keep them warm. The clear

sky shares color with the water, and I
lean to whisper in her sun-reddened ear
in simple syllables the thrum of my
eternal machinery. Tanning here,

two people twist a circle to an eight
in the sand, letting time evaporate.