[Our beach is best]

Our beach is best

like this: blank and wide,

the skim of sea on land

descending with the tide.


Even through a fight,

my body holds parts

of yours, the way rocks

in a drying jetty stack

and nudge against erosion.


Miles from us, in deep

water, a yellow jack

makes a bed in the bristled

tentacles of a jellyfish,

flat nickel face to the bell,

its bony lip grazes

the velarium, tasting

the gut in its canals.


The lines on my knuckles

try to erase themselves

as I ring a finger

around your thumb.


The beach shrinks

to a strip. Waves like

thin black rags wipe

away the shore.


I turn you to a question

mark when I roll to

my side and become

the question.


Gull cries build on

each other like barnacles.

Sands become dune.

A pea crab tucks itself

into a mussel's gills.


The argument ends

with a soft rebuttal

of sunburnt forearm

running down white

inner thigh, the way blue

and black and green

struggle to stay separate

on rough waters,

how desperately each

color ripples through

the other.