Inland, Thinking of Waves

and slides. Waves
don’t move forward, energy

rises and falls, like the waves
snapped into a rope

connecting two people who stand
some distance apart. So it only seems

the earth slips back
into the sea’s embrace. And your hands,

sliding the bell of my hips, could be
that white crest, scent

of salt. See how my eyes amaze
themselves, how my breasts

rise and fall. No words for this,
only your low groan,

centuries old, and the primeval keen
I wind higher and higher

from my clenched throat, as if
such joy were sorrow at its root.

Surfacing, scrimmed
with salt, we rock back

into language, try the only words
we know: no promises, no

certainties, only Hush, you say,
hush. And It’s all right and

Yes. Through the open window
traffic roars like surf. We lie

hundreds of miles from shore,
floating in our wake.