Your smile-squinted eyes open
blue and capture
mine. Or perhaps mine
capture yours. I’m not sure.
I lean wistful on
the doorpost, cling
in hope that sheer
will can tether the moon-pull,
can still time. Ebbing
water sucks at my toes and I
try to hold the ground
in place, but each
moment is pried from beneath
the arches of my feet.
You wade back thick
and slow with the tide. Only
when the smoke-blue
night has swallowe
your gaze can I
press the door gently
shut, and even then those
eyes of yours remain
seared into my retina like
I stand three inches
deeper where sand wascarved hollow, and salty

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