The Salt Pools

Shallow graces for crystals
that show themselves when the water
turns imperceptible to air
blue to blue to white
clear to clear to crystal
the ocean’s bones
left in a porous coffin.
We tread lightly as a blush on
the shore’s sharp cheeks,
translucent pale soles
on the stones the sea would
have back.
Every depression is a factory
for salt, casualties when the
water retreats, saline tracks
where it trod.
I reached down and broke off
a piece the size of my
ring finger, considered it,
touched it right to my tongue.