by Zinta Aistars
The Pacific flares like a silk skirt
rising up Marilyn’s sunbronzed thighs –
edges frilled and foaming lacy and white
over the hips of boulders
rounded and curved
by wave upon wave upon crashing wave
upon endless wave, riding their smooth sides.
Full moon punctured sky overhead,
we lean into each other
on a bench made of unpeeled logs:
watching, listening, hypnotized
by the frill and the fall,
the crash and the rise.
Silent, your hand reaches for mine.
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