a soft seaward seam to the stars

i hear    your  fears

from this broken    island

your puckered braid

of

        cut moons

pink anemones     waving

sunday's cello dawn

a soft hole      in sky paper

maybe it doesn't matter

        since the path

has both of us on something     waiting

   and sometimes

    leaning in to touch

the sea's    spray

to taste the green

purple    &     dark