tired from swimming in
metalove, an ocean thick
with wishes of shore
and surfacing to reunite
my lungs with you-
pouring sand with cupped
hand over your shoulder,
my skin-and-bones truth
whose imprint cradles water
when the water chases
air out of the curved form.
a little sea is our love;
things can be grasped
when tamed.
our tongues taste salt
when we wander into cold
calling movement floats
us in rhythmic bobs-
movement is forever
and that is how we feel
when stepping back to land
No comments:
Post a Comment