Turning and turning in the radiance
Of cormorants' screams,
Driftwood flesh is bathed,
Salt stings my lips.
I dream of the resonance of the rivers of your hair,
And I stand on the strand
And speak your name to myself,
Before the wind can wrest it from me.
I press wood into my skin
And my eyes make salt
But it is not enough.
Your waters erase my footsteps.
Your kelp shines a net round my liver.
I crave the scrape of your faded fingers.
1 year ago