he curls up
a flesh drop of dew when viewed
from high enough—
the wind yanks the sky out
of place like a word stressed
a syllable too soon so
marooned far from the island of
his understanding, though debris from my boat
floats by. There he is
waving like a capital letter—my arms loosen
from my body like string and bring my hello out
as highlights are said to eyes
if hair is dark enough
for an iris to interpret as sea
exempting of course night’s involvement
where shadows are lonely for the home
light makes. His tongue reaches in my mouth like California
and we argue shoreline
while sand breeds jellyfish
in tear-ducts he tunnels clean.