Tidepool of Minor Planets

At low tide, the shore is a library of shallow bowls, inked with kelp and mica, each holding a small sky. I kneel and the salt wind breathes in syllables, pulling my name apart, letting it drift.

A crab rehearses its armor, an old idea changing rooms. Under the surface, a starfish turns like a slow clock, its hands soft and patient, keeping time with nothing but sunlight.

I think of the planets we never see, stone or ice in their long unlit orbits, and how they might carry their own small storms, tide after tide, without an audience.

When the water returns, the bowls are rewritten. The sea edits with a broad blue pen, leaving only a sheen, a memory of listening, and my knees, wet with a borrowed cosmos.