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I have a more serious love poem.

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I better say that,
it's for my wife.

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It's called "Atlantic
Evening" for Jean Claire.

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It's an early Boston poem,
if that means anything,

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I don't know.

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The Atlantic breaks about
us, while your sudden face

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juts from a
diminished landscape,

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tame to parabolas by touch.

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I think of you as child,
molding the incorrigible sand,

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shouting into sand castles, in
expectation of lords, ladies.

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We are entombed by sand,
high tide licks your feet.

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Laughing, you watch
the mosaic melt,

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your flesh decorates the beach.

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Our touchstone, more light
than sand, water, the wind

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hinting past deaths by blowing
wisps of years in your hair.

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You pirouette to the
brink, you drift.

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The moon's clouds draw
shadows of stagecraft

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across an ocean of darkness.

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I turn to you now, more
sure of the sure and steady,

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dancing without visions of
fantasy, churned in the head

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by the sea.

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No seashell hummed
her the message.

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I take soundings.

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Flesh shores our castles against
the tidal departure of sand.

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Our eyes blur on seascape,
yet touch is a way of looking,

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while we await the morning,
and love made with open eyes.

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