You washed up
with the waves
last winter
with the
rejected corpses
of jellyfish
and rotting seaweed
pulled from sandy
trenches

you rolled in
with the sea foam
who birthed
Aphrodite
and the glass orbs
from sunken
ships,
gone by

in with the
driftwood
and the cawing of
seagulls
dipping down
to touch the
haggard surface
of your chariot

and with a gypsy "hurrah"
and the clank of my zills
my arm up
and my orange skirt hiked,
I ran into the under-toe
to save you

I will take you from the waves,
my love,
and carry you off into the night
(if that's what you want)
but I am not
the Pacific
or the full moon who
shows her face each night
who pulls you to the shore
when the
tide is high
I will shine a light on you,
but
I can't be your caravan.