Claire de Lune

            … And you’d laugh
If I tell you I’m this desolate
Strand bleached by the sun’s
Jealous stare as I wait till waves
Your lovesong soothe my coral bones
And my sand turns silver in your coming—
My Beautiful!
            So I won’t say it.
In this moonglow, the edges
Of my words are blurred.
And in this chill air
How would they mean
Through chattering teeth?
We could walk to the end
Of this beach and get nowhere.
                                                            But
Oh, how in each other’s arms
We’d love to burrow and have
No more need for speech.