Saturday, October 9, 2010

sea light


I woke
to the wall where you wrote:
"To the edge of the waters
we're going!"

I got a craving to smoke.
(And smoke, I did - a vaporous body!)
Your warmth still
pressed into the bed
from the night before -
a pleasant ghost, you are.


I think of the sea
and the light we've basked
in it, storing it
for the winter, for the long
lasting water coming with it,
grey and off-white,
hung in sheets.
We hid that summer sea-light in our bags,
drawing it out as we descended
Constitution Mountain,
and later, the heat
from the insides
of your legs - your life-heat
a white-hot sound of love
I could suffer for,
the lovely tingle
of your darker hairs. And our
birth-sheets warming
as the sea-light fades, as
waking fades
into soul-sleep - or something
like true repose
begins, your legs wrapping
mine in amber
morning light.

The sea
ever and again,
turning over
and under itself
in its own shimmer,
its own liminal
reflection -
I sleep in the water's sound.

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