High Tide: As If Dorothy Wakes In Oz

I asked the ocean to show me; peel back my eyes
and scrub them clean with her sand, her salt
so that, cleansed, I’d know the size of the universe.
So that, illuminated, I could dream again.

Instead, she grabbed me ‘round the waist; eased
me into her vast hollows and in darkness,
blessing began. First feet, then knee, and hip.

She, lovely incubus; suckled breath, gathered rib
and dust, capillaries red and bursting;
until a thousand galaxies fixed themselves on her tongue:
the sky opened up
cherry blossoms in Chile; holy, lost
and, just then; whispered,
“You are the size of the universe.”

At high tide, she left the world on my lips;
Woke me, purified.