Dry luck
flakes fallow forehead.
       (I’ve come for you.)

It promises, a hundred times, to grow
and recklessly rakes the earth.
My nails: long, pointed, poignant.

Digging into and in with my hands.
Crossing and holing XXO
       (I love you but you’re lost.)

I like when you speak.
     Now you’re making Os with your mouth,
     (or are they NOs?)
Either way, the next day:
protect those little pearls tucked away in your mouth.
From me; a deep red sea diver,
packing myself up.
Weighed down then floating up.

I came up, air head,
breathe — and another she gave it to me: “We’re dead.”
Her tongue was salty. Breath crisp like I’d never left it.

*No soles, no golden grains; white washed out.

Did I   do fine?
I did,   I    followed a beat:
            mine; and in a manner,
     my mind— thumping, turning tables
round bends; corners escaped:
lost a pulse of any quality.

Yet, I feel I can     still hear it,
still remember it, still find it. I'll
hold it closer this time, so delicately,
so preciously. Minding not to squeeze it,
nor to ignore it: to sink    attention
                           to synch affection—
I become a vessel—
and blissful beats bruise her cheeks
a colour that I've never seen before.