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.