This evening, when the air sings like blood
and tears the sheet, she sits bald on the horizon.
We look straight into her heart.
The wind is weak and changeable.
She cuts out horses and ladies.
This evening, when stones split
and she dresses the hair around her like ropes,
we see you stand.
You can change into a wall of water.
It’s the final hours
that suck her into destruction,
but you radiate light at the core.
She gives her men a hard time,
casts off, crosses over,
voyages to a better life.
She will sing no more,
reads your shadow
on the wall enclosing her.
She can ball up.
It keeps her warm.
So this evening,
when she swims over in the dark
like a chick unable to find its egg,
no man will guard his girl.
Why would one search?
She will lash herself about you
like soft rope
She will embrace you
and all the shingle in between
sits like a tiny feather in her
that might grow sometimes into wings.
I have no prop beneath your language,
and I don’t know where the ship will strand,
whether the river runs inwards,
but what floats best, falls hard.
None of this is necessary.
We have a gap to fill in each other