I have a more serious love poem.
I better say that, it's for my wife.
It's called "Atlantic Evening" for Jean Claire.
It's an early Boston poem, if that means anything,
I don't know.
The Atlantic breaks about us, while your sudden face
juts from a diminished landscape,
tame to parabolas by touch.
I think of you as child, molding the incorrigible sand,
shouting into sand castles, in expectation of lords, ladies.
We are entombed by sand, high tide licks your feet.
Laughing, you watch the mosaic melt,
your flesh decorates the beach.
Our touchstone, more light than sand, water, the wind
hinting past deaths by blowing wisps of years in your hair.
You pirouette to the brink, you drift.
The moon's clouds draw shadows of stagecraft
across an ocean of darkness.
I turn to you now, more sure of the sure and steady,
dancing without visions of fantasy, churned in the head
by the sea.
No seashell hummed her the message.
I take soundings.
Flesh shores our castles against the tidal departure of sand.
Our eyes blur on seascape, yet touch is a way of looking,
while we await the morning, and love made with open eyes.