Plea to the sea. Lure of cure in rapture:
you took a photograph with your brassiere

unhooked, sitting in front of a mirror
to watch me, inch by slow inch, disappear

into your split-slicked need. We sat with spread
hips. Your hair covered my face. Lips steady.

Camera snapped the moment the dark seabed
boiled slag up in you, filling the cowrie

of your cunt with the hope that I might fuck
away your wound if I could. There is pain

only sea sprites can cure, like the violence
in your pix: like how love-tide flows amok

in us. We keep fucking, trying. Again,
always again. Just once, O gods, just once.