Breasts can hang like a pouch upturned if unencumbered.
The tension of the nerves, the muscles cradle the energy of desire as
he arches his ache upward in an abandon of dance.
The kayak floats over the nautilus in the churn of time when no wind
blows from the other lands. He loops around my legs for a day
in a lazy embrace. When shadows mark the horizon
like a hermit crab that senses tremors in the sand he recoils
into the calcified memory of the earth. The waves
proliferate stories of our origins. As the evening turns amber
like the roots we brew, the bottom of the stone tub swirls in clouds
with the shapes of people we identify: many of them fell to diseases
to save us. The sand is pregnant with the lost ones
the flair of the womb mirrors the dead child I buried
when the tongue of the sun gouged the sea into a tsunami.