DAY SEVENTY-FIVE (2015-6-22)
Can we make ourselves into the creeks of the night?
Our hands run heavy, fast, against the slopes of shoulders,
the buried rocks of want, and rest
lightly, pattering, against the sun warmed bake of skin.
The current turns around us, asking
and we slip our hands into the cold, giving answers
as if sending small, handmade boats of leaves and twigs
to crash and navigate against the waves.
We've found us, in the dank of moss,
in the touch of bare feet on the cool stone,
sending water, dripping, sizzling, into heat:
we're there, just beneath the foam, mouths open,