This is a glass fist to a glass jaw. This is the ghost in a Polaroid—a man moving inside himself, erotic déjà vu. This is driving to the shore, shouting the sea, the sea as if I found my way home. These are my footprints crackling in sea glass. This isn't the white cross of intercession pressed into my palm. This is the discipline and sweetness of not having. This is a litany of bottles feathering trails in the sea. This is the face of the water, which isn't its face, only what the wind inscribes. This isn't you.