it's nighttime, and the air is aching:
its breeze, its swelling, rippling fullness
a summer evening, filled with the rich
plump juice of forgotten morning,
like every moment has been feeding
on the last.
I know where i'm going; my feet are tracing
this soil like lovers' hands, with that
trickling warmth of familiarity,
the sensation that memories could come
surging back with any step:
to be pitifully subject to the waves.
don't take me here again. i can hear the water against the rocks, then
feel its pressure against my skin:
pleasure and pain and gross, consuming feeling,
and then the slate edge,
the pupil of a monstrous eye.
my feet are not my own.
before long i feel the sea's breath against me, and
white foam limbs form in strange contortions at my feet.
morning will come, and
i'll wake up in cold sweat
as true as water.