if it were only the machinations of sound tinkered with,
meant to form words riddled with cipher and code, the
sea might relent and lovingly rust salt-crusted syllables
instead of filling the engine with the watered oil of age.
there are never any guarantees that words murmured
in the dark reach the ears of the intended anyway.
we never say what we mean to say and if the ocean
splashing in through the window doesn’t wake us up,
then the suction of sand at the tide mark will. something
slow to speed us up, our bodies water-logged with the
threat of growing wrinkled before the dawn comes, of
granular hieroglyphics traced on our foreheads, racing
the darkness on slashed tires, already marked by the sea.