and nothing
- no -
can touch you here.
you need to know;
you want to hear.
lagoons of time
- pearlescent-
in all directions;
omnipresent.
we waste our tastes
in saline haste to swallow
something more than hate;
to anchor all,
to simulate;
the weight of tears
against the odds
of breath and flesh.
that safety net
defies the length of sentiment,
and even yet...
you hold yourself in present tense
to sweat,
resent,
repent.
and so,
you starve and fret.
in the dead of night
you petrify,
resist the air that rents
and gasp:
what was that?

all that you are;

is all that you?

this is all that,

and that is all.

hush,

hear it?
listen.

all those waves
rolling in,
out,

dragging all you hate,
all you fear,
in tides
offshore.

no pen can trace ink
faster than the sea
can wash it
all away,
promise.

your words are water,
dissolving in the saline sounds
of neap and spring,
rise and fall;
lunar rhythms.

eye the sky
and wait for everything,
the whole god ****** world
to take a breath
and quiet down

so you,
with shaking hands,
might find some peace
below the seabreeze scented winds.
just wait for it.

now,
a moment.
a cosmic pause,
and even nature waits
for what should happen next.

recede.
gradual fade
of throbbing veins,
and wet skin tingles

prickles
with delight
of marine air.

you
are safe;

free.

I can't pretend
that I don't care.
it hurts too much,
too much to bear,
to think of you
alone somewhere
without me there,
without me.

there.

[(this is not a poem)

this also not a poem]

this is a 'poem'

but that's just my opinion.

handfuls of hair,
toungues,
teeth.
the curving air;
alive
in rooms
with hanging doors.
we feast.

our rolling eyes,
shaking lips,
hips.
tremble
under fingertips,
taste the heat
and melt.

we press.
wasting no time
for breath.
it happens.
it happens.
it happens!

flashes in the dark.
matches scratch,
little fires arise.
bread browns,
fish sizzle,
the scent of coffee boiled in cans.

a clatter of knives,
tobacco clouds,
a lapping on the rocks.

before,
that vastness of sea.
behind,
the frozen wastes;
that barren of broken dreams.

they are so very far from home.

one stands,
watches,
points an arm toward the glow
of crimson afar.

they cross themselves,
ready the tackle
and stand,
knowing they may not return

but hunger is unkind,
and death makes no exceptions
for sailors.