into wave, for
that instant when the water boils
so you know to throw the lure
to cast your arm
against the wind.
I'm flailing.
No good poems come from me.
I am not emptied.
I am not a vessel of light
just a husk of who we were.
In smaller moments I find
you on me, a finger here
slight touch there. I take it.
Legs like tree trunks rooted
firmly into your ground
never toppling, only undulating.
Sturdy arms never meant to row,
only cradle.
And yet they are too often
left circled
but vacant
like a lot on a street where weeds
grow over and smells of anise bloom against
the grit and grime of a city littered.
Those two blue storms, so grave in the recess of your brown
and set to narrow, they
trace the contours of a horizon, the impression
of wind, the crevice between stacked rocks--
but never the stalled breath of a lover
the contrast of skin to skin to skin.
Still, there is comfort
in knowing the phases of the moon
which coincide with the tide
which shift to bait
your glance
this way.
05.19.2006
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