sea or any ground

liquid enough

seeps pleasure.

I’m moving

to the moon.

Wet trouble,

my pearl-soaked

muse, my gritty tremor.

We upwell,

admit this wave-reek

lust, this bruised

wish itching. Dizzy

won’t do. I who drown

won’t undrown you.

Tidal, I

whap brackish the bed

I cannot harvest.

Our wreck splits

at bone last.

Copyright © 1999-2018 Juked