32.

Keel, mast, sail in wind, sea, sky shake and bend

As if to till the swell, and Circe calling

As the brides weep for those lost. The dead

Moan over the koan-cropped waves, falling

A myth as enfolded as flesh. Aphrodite

Bears no rhyme, no grudge on the edge

Of the sea. Only the cliff is wine red

And the water is a metaphor for blood.

And there you were as if the outcrop

Were a bow thrust in the cusp, your face

Pelted with spume, the fish thick and shimmering

Dance sunward, your voice trailing off

Like the present. The almonds are in blossom

And this winter barely chills the marrow.