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.