How is it your lips found mine
from a thousand miles,
in that sudden night warmth that wraps a person
in some late, dark fogs
while salt foam hisses closer up the sand?
How is it, stranger,
there’s familiarity in the creases on your face,
the new color of your eyes?
Proper ones on a beach
may never know
what every particle of sand and
hidden star understands.
the breaking, dying, spinning, softening, flowering..
It doesn’t get easier, or more beautiful.
knocks agony into coves where
it never belonged.
Thank goodness for wind.