Each boat lowing, the waves
graze darker, darker
as if my canvas shoes were used to bells
to this dock eating its damp rot
its arms and legs
--you would toss your hair
push away from your eyes
their green between each wave.
Is it three hours or three days?
You never wrote and someone I should know
is opening a letter, come by sea
by tears whose bottom sand
is covered with storms and under my heart
a birdcall becomes in time a stone
a shepherd's hush held to my lips
--I am wading into these breakers
for the darkness that seals
as a tree still licking its bark
opened by mistake --I am slowly
into your eyes, each step
a still warm leaf sent off
opening into skies
into foothills and your eyes.
