Seawind In The Plums

This evening
ruffles of surf
draw out shrinking sand.

Casts of the sea pull us.

Holding you here
the rustle of your dress
seawind in the plums
the moon’s cupped light.

We touch
what a wave marks-
that small world
flared up like split bone.

The sound of sound
resounding of surf
opens us
far beyond
that glib theater of the brain.

Hypnotic sea-veins
emerald fists
pull and pull
until we fast become
the underside
beauty between us.

by Richard Bunch

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