Dead low neap tide
beyond the shining expanse of sky merging into gleaming sea,
a lacy trim of breakers calmed by an off-shore wind.
not the black lace of
abandoned weed left to it’s fate
on this shimmering grit, these obsidian grains.
Wild water is but a memory
sea salt tears running into the sky
where do these end and the sea begin?
Carried in the upward draft
from the golden wings of Eros
above the wild water of his creation
to a vaster ocean, which has no tide.