Atlas of Quiet Tides

In the submerged archive, shelves are carved from kelp, spines of salt and soft light, pages turning by the breath of passing fish.

A diver opens a drawer of low currents, finds a map where every eddy is named after a person who once waited at a pier.

Above, the city forgets its own shoreline, but down here the water keeps receipts: rusted keys, a teacup, a lullaby in shells.

I take one into my mouth and hear the porch swing, the yard becoming a tidepool, the future rinsed clean and set to dry on stones.