Buried in the shoreline sleeps
a rock exactly the shape of your thigh,
in the dent you made on the wet packed sand.
The piece of you that swells and meets
your seal slick pelvis
your steel soft ass.
Touch it.
Touch it now.
The rock is not that strong.
Like the spinning rims of a slowing hearse
the tide’s arms ride the hub of a wave
- driven by the husk of a tough wind
to recall the scent of your touch.
You are dear to it
-like the poet’s thesaurus,
like the liar’s toes.
But like the things that make your steel soft mother cry,
you are not there to embrace it.
