To the Air

His fisherman’s cap

is gray as is the sea

where he stares. He once

saw a mermaid

there     near

the shore tangled

in kelp. She wanted him

to not see her. She wasn’t

a gift. He wasn’t. Yet

he stared. Keeps returning

to stare at the now

nothing he sees. Nothing

as in not her.

He once said he loved

her     sea life.

He’s captured     capturer.

Blame agony.

Blame perpetual

return to the kelp

stuck to his feet     for

the wind over

ears     in canals.

She’s singing

a water hymn

not to him

but to the air.

This is where

he dissolves.