sit

as I drink red wine
from a dusted bottle

stay

as I trace our initials in the sand
with a gnarled brach of an oak tree

taste

the oysters they harvested
in this cool, winter month

(it is November,
so it is safe to eat them...)  

and take me

from the white tipped waves,
down to the black oblivion
of the ocean floor

your Egyptian sheets,
a sail for a ship
that never got to see
a new sunrise