With dunes of dishes to do,

I work only to wash my bird cup

because there are patches over the sun

and water from the sky.

I fill the shell with filtered rain

and wait for its siren to wake,

smoking her screams out,

Wondering if the legends sang in tune

or sounded like this stovetop songstress,

aching as she climbs to uncomfortable scales.

Relieving the broken voice over herbal grounds

Six twists of pepper mill, two shakes of cayenne will

be the expectorant of poetry.

At the bottom of the perched vessel, rocking words to sleep,

the last wave of honey sea mixes with red sand and persuades

the black rocks of a seasoned beach to be washed away.