The ocean the first night wrenched,
opened its mouth, Trust me, it said.
The second night, the tide backed out,
and I waded in. I am lost in you, I said.
I could see tankers lit on the horizon,
see my face reflected as in a holy mirror.
Sly little waves brushed against my hesitant skin,
as the tide’s tender in and out unlocked my bones.
I felt myself grow larger in the water’s wide hands,
and I thought of Whitman: I am large, I contain multitudes,
and then of you in the hotel room,
reading Whitman in your flannel pyjamas.
I so wanted you beside me, but you would have been
super uncomfortable in the water in wet pyjamas.