Like a timid lover,
    the tide entreats
then retreats
      until it overcomes,
         yoking you
      in seaweed and shell-bits –

like, yet not unlike
     that dark floundering union
which, or rather, he
     was never able to fish out

what he wanted,
    only everything else –
hooks everywhere
    wounds  wicked   mean
and never a healing –
     from even the inconstant waves
such that
 
in the ocean,
      were you really in an ocean,
the sharks pled their
    swift thick love

so dfferent from when he,
     so long ago,
took your breath away,
      channeling
from your gray gills
     to green lungs

filling, like you were some
   large plastic doll –
woman, rather,
    he made you
  
back when

his hands were velvet sand
    his shade, like the tamarind
and his mouth –

  his mouth was wind.