Stood here, on this
set square jetty

extended out into
a midday ocean,

into a bay with
the city where

I now live
on the other side,

the skyline a horizon.
The Pacific waves

stroke the land
like I used to

stroke our cat,
and I crossfade

back, the
rosy sunlight

rippling and refracting,
summer-strong

and as warm
on my skin

as my parents’
hands. I

remember how
I ran and jumped

in the street
and the yard where

I played, outside
in my hometown,

my old neighbourhood.
Now, feeling

the vacation
of my childhood,

I pace
along the border,

paddle like I did
whenever my mother

refused to swim.
I would

wade while we walked
my aunt’s dog along

the coast with her,
following the sun.

The salty air once
made me sleep

easily, tired from
the long walks to

and from
and along the sea.

Now it wakes me up.
I remember the days

when I did swim.
In the sea, I froze.