A fig cored in the fog’s nest. Sea kelp curls;

pubes with the long voice of water. Your thigh

marked with bruises. Drawn in the sea, the pearl’s

grave eye, in the tip of my tongue. Pinkeye

and cum, suncocked salt water down your throat

until you cough. Spew. Sex affects, you think,

what it touches. Salt stained bloat. Horny goat

weed cast adrift. Such spindrift of your pink

and plum channel wall. All this bliss, you turn

key, you corkscrew, must be out there. Glamour

like the tide. Neither age nor money nor

time shall dampen a good soak. Saint Sloane’s Burn.

You think. You thunk. Before, when you’re older,

salt glass, triton’s tidal fuck, and less sure.