There is time's eloquence between the lines,
this time. Some whisper about this
spring, last spring, one more spring
and we're still not moving—blind
to each other's wrinkling hands.

Something lies buried in each breath
of this ocean's tides—shadows
melt in the night like foam in the rain.
Somehow

our breath resumes as you strike a match,
a wink of light, and I can almost stretch this
yellow contour towards the pink moons of your fingers,
figure bones won't end up a black curved tiny stick,
a crumbling blackness in the night.

We've been bathing in the light of a tired sun
but this moon keeps stretching white
extremities of foam—a whirling majesty, my love;

and I will run my fingers through this night's rocks,
through breakers and onto the sands of all your shivers
till your golden light sparkles in the dawn
of a renewed spring's eloquence.

 
the sun perhaps

There's always beauty, of course, even in desert rocks
and sand: the frozen beauty of lizards in the sun
and the occasional weed I've never learned to name—
the occasional spots of speckled brown and dark green.

There's always beauty, of course, even in the most remote,
lizardless places.