You stand with your suitcase like a buoy,
bright, bobbing in the shallows,
and I am the pier—
rooted, barnacled, smelling of old salt and rope.
You tell me you’ll stay
if I keep my hands wrapped round your ankles,
but I know the tide you carry in your ribs.
Even on windless days
it pounds against my palms,
shouting for the open mouth...
Continue reading...