although I keep my raindrops yet the patterns in your past do not inform against your bed nor can they keep at last the broken dunes the turning moon spills shadows on like glass
the sand that drifts between your thighs must slowly blow away and oceans crawl in every night until they come to stay and love you hard the rolling bard of sailors and of space
though herring-gulls and whales and stars inform against the sky the omens there are not so bare that two of us can’t try for sailing tides that heave and slide to Jason’s other prize
and reach the harbour warm and wet where tears dry on the mast and where the moon’s grey aching head is turned to earth at last the ocean’s flow and we who know shall bring these things to pass