Eyes slicing into a spine, pushing,
like the memory of white waves, a body
into the undertow
of ocean view suite 12 C.
Now returning to the linens, riding the ghost of the sea
You speak without speaking, your sibilant whispers
Inarticulate, deliberate, slow.
High tides sigh as blind gulls lull in violet dusk.
Once again, the act replaces the memory,
kept in the distant shores of the mind.
Our primordial love song conceives no words,
As we conceive, in silence, no more than we.
The easy pain of faithless love
Wrings the laundry of our limbs
Slides aside, crescendos into a kind of mitosis.
Beyond the glass door, the obsidian shore
Is shushing the cackles of gulls who, unlike we
Are not seen, yet see.
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