Thinking about the captain’s cliffs,
we were seeking out triangles of the
porous ocean light, literary watches
ticking bell hours in the damp night.
In the morning in the bathtub, waking up
soaked-sullen as ever, great Gods of the
Marianas Trench, rising deep between ourselves;
your eyes flickered as vineyard wine in monastery casks.
Reached out to hold lightly, your skin well-known
as the New York skyline, traces well-trod
as the MTA map; forgotten faces flickered
coarsely as rocks on sandy parchment.
Blood was pumping, rising up swiftly
hearts melding cautious to elixir’s dawn;
I never looked upon wind favourable,
tossing ship-ward aquamarine allusions, until you.
Teeth chattered to the blanket warm-up,
glinting dull grey-yellow in the morning’s indifference,
floods of inevitability washed over
us, tearing apart and soaking through,
and two islands again we were.
Photo by semperfrater
- Kori Morgan: How I Write
- Emily as These Bad Choices