You are beating onto me like a wave
and sand shakes from my coast with each hit:
one day a man dived into me, now
he is a photograph honey-dewed with age.

I loved his language. It twirled as a song
forms dynamics, rhythm up high to a ceiling
a flood gathering from the floor –

I wanted him to make me buoyant like that
but he just spit in my mouth and made me
swallow, like I could swig a tongue
or gather hope from salty strings of saliva.
Did he know I felt the ocean crashing again?

It must have been a lucky guess unless
girls can appear as aquamarine as it,
starfish and seashells, their pale pinks desire
something brighter than Miami’s going air.

But I did not, only more than a portrait
that can be stolen away by high tide and sea –
how rough water gets, striking you and me.