On salted wounds

The waves caress his love, the sand,

small strokes, the tide resounds with his voice box

barely a whisper, “You're alright, you're safe,

breathe in, breathe out, breathe in," along coasts, shores;

he traces the rocks, soft erosions, stretch-

marks of minerals and moss, he runs his

fingers through seaweed, palms on stony floors;

skin for the sky’s mirror; rest for branches -

eucalyptus, casuarinas, mangroves, 

green tendons drink from the star-spangled cool,

sending ripples, foam white on blue on black;

his songs are calm, words like water, "Breathe out...”

-

If their mouths possessed a human-shaped throat,

‘Bay, beach, creek, gulf, cove’ would be binding vows,

declarations of devotion, passion

loyalty, faithfulness, adoration;

such night-time obscurities, intertwined

fingers, limbs, bodies of liquid and rock.