"Sediment Strikes The Atlantic"

You, restless,
revealing delicate
dregs of stomach hairs - you stretch, and
my nervous
eyes steal a view.
Your morning
stubble doesn't give a damn.
Be dissident in my house. We can share
my bed.

Aeolian winds now, excitedly
static, touching tongues as they busy
past to carve crests and peaks
of mountains,
snowy, feeling guilty
of their own terrible beauty.
Glaciers grace
slow and - one day plume
mists of sand into
oceans, into sedimental memory.

When your lips are still
dampened with our pungent beers,
resume your stories. We
observe the parking from a
safe distance.
You are
pointing your anger at newspaper
headlines again.

Freckles
bronzed and
dirty scatter
into place
when you come
closer. Then are you - bright
spots of headlights dashing
electric along ebony
veins of highway or
careful butter spread on Monday
morning toast or
choirs of infant laughter dispelling
in nurseries or Time settling
everything.

Me.
I asked
what histories you'd
spoken of to her
yesterday.
"He's so sad now,"
she said.