Rhythm

I balance

his driftwood wrist

on my thumb,

two fingertips rolling

across soft spines

of strewn dabberlocks.

Remote,

the bloom and melt

of a lighthouse beam

still pulses

with thin electricity

then there is blackout.

Waterlogged and lost,

I am hurled to the claws

of rocks,

splintering and splitting

in the gush,

all my swollen pieces

swallowed

by the darkest sea.