Rock squids dart for cover,
shells dig in deep,
as the boy with the elegant mist cape
wanders through the pools.

Ocean’s giant tongue tip
laps at his feet
as if a feast; roars with delight
while rubbing salt in the wounds.

He can see his shoes now,
Jesus had taken them,
walking on water with rock squid speed
between the darker rocks at Black Cliff’s foot.

Knee-deep he climbs,
clumsy red lobster hands, frail,
small fishes giving him soft kisses on the cuts
that leak rusty stains.

A raven dives down
(raisin black feather-gowned),
sailing down the gloomy curtain of fog;
a dark adhesive that hides the black rocks’ shadows.

Swimming now, cape afloat –
a rock hard nudge in the ribs;
pain linger, erases worries of such things as shoes –
I raise my hand, wave back and adjust the camera strap.