Aubade

Lathe of the ocean. Perpetual Motion machine of the waves. Everything still Being turned and shaped to a shape nobody Foresees: Ten years ago, was it, when we Walked that shore, too earnest and sheepish To hold hands? The wind cutting through our clothes Cleansed and burned, the chill off the Atlantic An ache we courted in our dumbstruck talk: Callow, expectant, what wouldn’t love give? Cavalcanti’s ray from Mars, Dante’s wheel that moves The planets and the stars, how nervous We were, awkward and shivering: “Like this, Do you like it like this?” Up all night, Then waking to the smell of flannel and sweat, We lay grateful, winded, goosefleshed in the chill, Our own atmosphere rich and breathable: We drank round the clock, embracing extremes, Too hurried and heartsore to think of time… Out fishing after midnight, we watched schools of squid Slide and shimmer, tentacles tight-wrapped Around our gig’s hooks: Yanked from the water, They spouted jets of ink, then pulsed and quivered And faded to dead-white, their eyes, resigned and sober, Opening wider and wider…Ten years more, And will either of us remember That ink sticky on our hands, the moon-glare Rippling as we knelt underneath the pier And scrubbed and scrubbed our hands in the dark water?