Head in hand,
propped and fit,
grip of sand.
 
Bending grass,
salt of air
mingle with we.
 
Smooth fingers long for skin,
not her own;
tackle-box duties, 
a long-lost chore.
 
This boat-ride,
not intended-
(the straddle of strength),
 
Not sailing Sunfish-
(hair in my face),
 
Not sunning myself-
(sweet bird chirps and cases the place),
 
Not walking the promenade-
(nothing matters but this holy-gate,
destroy me, rip me,
get the pace, get it down, get it right,
open me up to the place;
dripping me over you,
end it, bend it, 
collapse on you).
 
Unspoken hints through the eyes,
head in hands you look so good,
the grass bending via our meet,
miles from home, miles between we.
 
What happens to the scorch of we?
what bounce of hum resides in me?
what bubble burst I want back;
what love I lost to not act.
 
For love is nimble, 
a slippery spurn;
it knows, unlike we,
it doesn't snap;
flow and ripple in the sea-pushed wind,
love is my bending grass,
forever under memory.