Awash, rising from you like a grouty sea lion, my whiskers askew with kelp. In my hair and yours, sea grit, our fingers salt riffed and foamed. Shells in the slow tumble from the westward current. The spill of liquid sand, whiffs of us. Like those bright glass bulbs loosened from the Japanese fishing nets. Those clapperless tidal bells tinking in the upcurl of waves, lapping, just lapping like our tongues.
©Bruce Hunter, 1986 -- unauthorized duplication prohibited