Cormorants. Brown weed.

Rocks in midday sun.

The harbor rustles 

as the afternoon breathes.

A sail fills to push its lithe hull

onto the flat horizon’s edge.

One cormorant rotates

its thin black head

back. The serpent neck

braids its chest

as the beak

ferrets through feathers.

A second cormorant watches

blue green water—shifting

marble—the flow

and shimmer.

What time is it?

a woman

asks.

I don’t know.

I don’t know.

The cormorants stare.

Titmouse whistles.

Blue-silver water

kisses sandy soil,

grasses, twigs.

Wood smoke rolls

around trees

to the white rhythm of samba.

Blackbird chirrs. 

Liquid rustles— 

two feet squish, squash

into the grove.

Lifting my head,

I see

the wet bra fall.

Her nipples are bold

in the salty breeze.

She slips the bikini down

with a swivel of her hips.

(Samba silence. A boat

glide across dark sheen.

Somebody calls from

across the bay. Clouds

pile high.) Her breast

fills my mouth. My hand

finds her inner thigh.

What distance

over sky-

scrapers

ice

and mind

I

swallow

smoke

sending

you, unknown

signs

choking

dreams

woven

from night’s

twisted cradle

come—don’t

come

Touch

this crosswind

between

us

as if

it still carries you—

me—

above

the roost

where crows lie waiting

for scraps of

fallen kisses

these autumn leaves.

Unexplained

this happiness

beyond

what we felt

at the time

it grew

monstrous

again

if again

remember the pond

water

like the cradle

you always

wished

hands touching you

warm

with desire

swimming

the cold water

all around