III
Come ride the fish-bright
swells of my flesh
and lay-by in my limbs,
greener than a glade.
Run aground, sailor,
in my dark, tussocked eyes
swing round your mizzen,
shipwreck in my thighs.
Only, come to my harbor.
Sweet is the port air.
Time will drop its sail
like a clipper in a lagoon.
There’s a berth in my hips
as wide as the moon,
a ribcage roomier than the sea,
and here, awash
between outcry and the deep blue,
my plunging heart
will fathom life from you.