He is the color of canoes
stranded on a sable shore,
all oars misplaced by calloused hands
pitching hot coals from brazier to sand.
Where angry winds erode
a honeycomb of caves and coves
to the pulse of ocean drums
in an anxious plea for passage
to deep coral and vermilion portals.
Solitary salt settles angst
and conjures a compromise
between flooding and receding
as graffiti blends into movie ads
on a crooked line of huts
stoic to stand every crested wave.
A dogged last stance
to seek some strategy
and a fight behind his eyes
where I look for all things missed,
all things misplaced,
reach for him,
past his canvas lining,
his morning shadow
scrapes small shivers
on the inside of my thighs.
My body self folds
round him with the ease and
fit of loose garments
on Bedouin souls
stretching limber
to keep pace with falling stars,
and he gathers me
as some personal truth
close to his chest
where dark eyed peregrine falcons nest
and the world comes to an end.
deuce coupe 