Susurrus: “a soughing of the waves;
murmur of flow.” Kissing you in the fog,
under stunted myrtle. When the flesh craves
more than just fingers and tongues, when a snog
goes on for too long – your jeans unbuttoned,
dew drops in your pubes, mica-flakes under
your nails – you make that lechery-moistened
groan. The sea cries in want and you answer
with your own cum-soaked sob, estuary
soaking your jeans. In those fifteen minutes
during recess – with dune grass, pear cactus,
with wet panting in us and susurrus
around us – we become the wind’s secrets
to the surf; children of chaos and glee.
