Smooth stones in itchy winter coats float down the bay and around the slope
of lost seasons and picture frames lost in flood plains
of you, holding on to me with strong shoulders, so near your boiling point.
Tire chains were attached and caught on dirty fishing line
call out my name with each creature swimming by,
it carries its message back and fourth to me and to anyone who might lend an ear,
for off-chance of health and holding on to keep from pulling under.
Into the depth of the sea we roll,
around each other’s bodies
and through every siren call,
brushing against small feet and chlorophyl.
Here, we know ourselves better.