My love, the sea
poured from your hands and sang to me
in its violence. We take what we need

from the broken shells and the clinging weeds
and discard the rest, laying our offerings
before the tide as though its monotone of fury
could perfect them.

My love, I dream you give me
the ability to hold the ocean. Drowning
is an instinct only to the angels; to us,
it is an act of will, or something like it.
What is love, if it is not the wish that waves
be still? We will touch, and you will speak
of love as an anchor, or handprints in a place
where only footprints have been seen before.
Drowning is our custom, and the water
is always warm.

- N.G.