Queer how the sea makes no bed
to set a clock by,
each tide unraveled by a different hour
to flood back like spilled tea.
In league with that shape-puller
of a moon, flicking a pick-up light
by turns of undercut and smoky eye
over the dancefloor crash of salt.
The Poseidon switch,
that long-lipped, lost boy
tipped me, pearl-green fathoms drowned
into her twin.
Spindrift on the date line.
Seconds in the dunes.