– Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations
You bring me the sea in your palms,
the ebb and drift of tides
on your skin,
in your hair — salt on your tongue —
and when you turn to me, I can hear
the soft throating
of gulls stranded by night winds.
You tell me
of your passage from the deep
through squalls and flocks of shearwaters
and you tell me how cold the sea is.
But let me loosen your wet hair
in this light —
white sweet violets by the bed —
I will find a fishing boat to take you back to the sea.
Love, let me watch
how soft the light
is on your face while you sleep.