A Portrait Along the Shore

A Portrait Along the Shore

Nothing gives way when the sun slips to the sea.
The clouds remain pinned to the horizon, a tour de force
reflecting the ardent waves, surfacing softly through
the colors that illuminate within his eyes—
the vigor of a thousand men, wingless on the sand,
an emotion or motion, open and animate in the soul.

And somewhere quietly, the seashells
gather rain. Deep along the shores, they sing through
the rays, reminding me of his tone in warmer weather;
a body loved, something I dream within a dream like
a kiss in a kiss, or the stimulating scent after a storm.

I find myself buoyant during this song;
a perch on the boughs of faith, where gulls stretch
to meet the water, wading effortlessly in the sunset
like a light in the distance that sways on the masts
of sailing ships.

I sense his breath there like angels praying in the fog,
making each inch of the sea pulsate in acquiescence,
the passion of sincerity caressing the back of my nape,
amiable sentiment moving back and forth against
the curves of my convivial spine.

I lean in to fit the form, following with fingertips,
until I attain the tenderness that he offers within
the decorum of his open hand. There, dusk
shelters us from the peripheral world.
For a moment, all else fades.

2/20/08