The tide pulls in
and sine waves intersect,
surf scalloping and cresting, small,
breeding pearly foam into sea breeze.

Your breath pulls in,
skin washing over collarbones,
ribs expanding to swallow oceans––
another kind of wave.  I feel my soul swell and fall into place.

The tide makes eddies––
gulls cleave shimmering half-circles in the air,
partition wind with meat, voices.
Sand swirls around my feet and is dragged out to sea––

Your skin makes eddies.
Conversations sink like round stones
and your toes open wide, sweeping arcs in the sand.
My heart beats just over three times.

The sea feeds trillions.
Ships wreck and barnacles forge their homes,
and fish school in Fermat spirals.
Plankton absorb sunlight and divide exponentially.

Your liver feeds trillions.
Arms envelope me
and nestle into the hollow under my spine––
I press my lips against your sternum, starving.

The sea pulls out.
The moon's orbit decays
four centimeters every year––
the disparity destroys worlds.

Your breath pulls out.
I cup sea glass and small, smooth shells,
my footprints forming acute angles to yours––
this disparity destroys worlds.