The sea of your skin was a handsome prize
ripple of your fingers a current on my back and
I am delighted! Made love by handholding
Flowerpicking and waterloving, my mouth is full of you and your dirty crevices.
Your praised me and I was made man, made new sorts
of flesh and bones in the wash of the tide
of the pull of your eyes;
the sea of your skin was a handsome prize and an accidental farewell,
crouched on the ground in early December, fetal and wailing (made of leather)
with leaves all up to my kneecaps,
was a rift.
And you flowed inwards, cascaded into the
canyon of goodbye and I would patch it (would I could)
with a sorry, a flower in a vase of water and a kiss
on the sea of your skin, a drop in the water
on the back of your hand to pull you forward.
You flowed inwards.
My mouth is full of sand.