In My Marine Night

In my marine night,

the birds sing to you

as if you were dawn;

the snow on the mountains

is not cold enough to cuirass

the river with silver horses

to charge tomorrow's sea.

If only you’d put your hands on my chest,

to feel

the torrential aorta of my clawless

lapping at the shores of your feet,

leaving no marks but a mist 

of weeping distance.

If only we could reach

like the Moon and Sea,

but it is bad luck to compare hands.

So let us compare eyes, lips, and tongues

for in the moonless arch of my selfsame nights,

let your moon-wet fingers moisten

my lichen-clutched tongue, with the nakedness

and armour of snow.

Though there is beauty here, it is no home,

my disembodied voice howling

behind the fence,

losing its sense of adventure,

its sense of a happy ending,

waiting for a peace that will not come -

one that I have to make,

In this sea that subtly nets the light

dissipating fingerprints: the gradual finger spaces…