Bedlam with seraph-fine fingers around
your throat. Less kiss, more like how the panicked
swimmer gasps water; anything but drown
into sea-blue bloat. Anything. You licked
the bit of knuckle that your tongue could reach.
Unlike the surf nothing pulled you under
save lust; your own tidal-flow on the beach,
my face in your flood. “I want your finger
down here.” There will be bruises tomorrow.
There is a ridge that my curved thumb can clutch.
Moon glow. Sea crust. The tide pulls out. A hiss
upon stones and you break from the shallow
water. You gasp, gag, recoil from my touch
and then sigh, pulling tight against my kiss.