On Chesuncook...

the hours wait, hanging in the sky smelling of charred arrangements, the sun expelling itself wringing the lake of light so that emptiness could only be more emptyto voyeur the nudness of loons and the great body of Chesuncook curling its shoulder into the corner of the open rock, accepting it’s loose advances,

so that underneath the retracting tide the hips of rock hiking skirt, reveal the dried bone and warmth, bed and coal of what we could and shouldn’t be.

bivouacked in moonlight and sound so that escaping the wheeze of shore in a scattered lace written out along the beach you can read you, in a scribbled, tide-abandoned tongue, the hours waiting and smelling themselves.