rears and recedes, spills
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.