Tincture of A Tide
In my youth I was her rockin’
Satyr, drunk on honey-mead,
A boat ever caught between
Her curve-careening waves.
Desire smashed me hard
And left me on that shore
Where I became her student
Reading water like a text,
Her girdles become pages
Thought thirsted so to penetrate
Like a war god hurling spears
Between the lines of mysteries.
But she ebbed on, her book
Become a third glass of sate
And I the sot full-poured and pent
To spill her next strange shore
With a tincture of the sea’s wild thrash,
Baptising her and I in it’s blue sass.
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