A garden of sea stars clinging to the same rock
as if cradled among aggregated anemones
that more truly await the return of the tide to submerge them
so they may open hungry;
Raggedy yet elegant, under salt water,
some kind of looking glass dahlias
fragile green as summer katydids
with no one the wiser to their predatory nature. . .
My lover pokes his finger into the soft tugging and says, “watch”
and I witness the longing
that can not be satiated nor understood by its own instinctual embrace,
Paralyzing to a lesser prey
so soon consumed.
He kneels in the sand to sketch our heart chakra rock,
that living rock
that changing rock
that sings at certain times in the morning
when he is still asleep and I am the only one making footprints in the sand,
walking along the shore
with circling grey-blue silver-white gulls and their speckled brown beggar offspring who’d ask the local crows for a hand out
if only they would oblige. . .
no matter the weather
He captures shapes quickly on his torn Arches
and promises to paint in the colors
later. . .
How his hair is the same as the gradients of gold
that darkens under the tide’s constant measure
and whitens where the sands bleach dry, closer to home. . .
The crinkle lines around his eyes, smiling
some sun rays
and the clouds so like his beard, puffy above
the folds of his dark blue denim, his broad shoulders
jacketing the distant hills in forest
and he turns to me
to look me in the eye
and he says, this is the place that makes lovers wanna kiss.