2
Have you loved the one who guides your ships into the hurricanes and reefs?
Her hair of waves, her eyes caste in bronze, her golden ocean sunset brow?
Sailor, too close to my cliff face, too near to my shell, as I am to your island.
Sailor, do not forget that we are slow whirlpools, ancient, aquatic, unending.
I saw your bare shoulders along a deserted beach, in the deep mauve of dusk,
I sighed upon your silken skin - do not be afraid of this navigation.
I wrapped my hair around your thighs to bring you under.
Propelled by life I now sail beside you, held by the gravity of your inner gaze.
I sing into your windswept psyche, conducting analysis, formulas, symphonics.
I am a processor of shorelines and seascapes and the minds of your kind,
formations, destructions and older beginnings than young stars,
the pressures of currents, the geomagnetism of dry land, I hunger to understand.
In the interim you are lost on the calm, with your lips of warm bloodwood,
your forehead of troubled wilderness. You attract these starlit eyes like anchors.
So I wait until the evening deepens, for your weathered olive facial skin.
Sailor, you are lost. I know you are coming, strangely shipwrecked.
I will guide your direction until your submergence.
You will dream of the dolphin upon your driftwood. I will be singing.
You will sink in my tangle of hair, in these slow tides of unknowing.
When we lock onto each other, it will be beneath glass, upon a reflected surface.
We will vanish beneath the waves of time, never to return, a bottle with no scroll,
no story, but wind-filled shells, trails of weed, a shark's fin and unchartered stars.
