I waded out past small waves repeating

instructions released the doll

in its straw-hat boat into a heft

of blueness Over my shoulder

there were only low slung caravans

beyond a fallen tree deep rust lines

of weed at slight diagonals

on the beach of dark caramel

I was to wear the hat: I was to love the doll

But dolls were dead to me –

cold skin and mirrors for eyes –

I made sure the end was gentle

but I was still judged harshly