She lets his moon soaked mast
skim the strands of her mane
in lambent streams
one wave at a time
he coasts her silvery currents
stirring a half kept sleep
the way a good dream
should
Nothing else quite quenches
the drought of a neap tide
poking at grassy hips
like a steel hull
splashing against the estuary,
slapping wildly above
the glassy lagoon
Her beacon brings him
to weathered shores
untethering at the waist
as he breathlessly laps
her into soft dunes
submerging exposed rills,
mouthing her veins
into a reservoir
of untamed shapes
And the whole peninsula
becomes a bed of quartz
and feldspar
and dreams
and minerals rich in desire
drawn from the narrow strip
of their meeting
when his waterline slips
past porous reeds, swallowing
shoals with fluvial lips, spilling
on her salt stained palms
a generous ravine of
longing.
The moon pulls them
towards a dream
that never really ends,
as the tide returns his hull to her
unrepentant in this need
to get lost in the living.