Flood Tide

Another day surges over

the horizon, flotsam

sloshing through its dark

sluice.  Loose pages

drift in pools, like

travelers, asleep beneath

the hills.  There is no

bowl to contain our

tears, just flooded floors in

a hastily abandoned factory.

Though pleasure pours

like rain, we swim

on until dark, emerging

from the waterʼs edge smelling

like wet sand.  Submerged

beneath our common

respiration, we wonder if

the ocean breeze will

keep us on course or

blow us back into ourselves.

We have thrown down our

breathless waves, arriving

home late but still

somehow hopelessly

adrift.  There is no

pail for love.  Even though

we’ve wrapped ourselves within

each others arms, each

of us still drowns alone.