At sea there are only lovers
and their lack. Cracked stones,
a rill of foam on reefs—always the hum of wanting,
its sail-snap. In the old songs,
there is a coming home,
and their lack. Cracked stones,
a rill of foam on reefs—always the hum of wanting,
its sail-snap. In the old songs,
there is a coming home,
a looking across the waves’
thin-skimmed ridges, the sea
conspiring with silt clouds.
How, then, on the water—
on the floating bar’s dull wood—
a woman bent bare, another’s lips
chasing liquor splashed along
her skin, and me with all the others
watching? What wanting in this,
what lover in this darkness come home to,
stumbled in sweat, the ruckle
of salt on a stranger’s tongue—
