CvK

Green Point

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Mirror halves of lobster shells on two plates, and words as hand to hand, the wine and spark fall behind with whisky and a will to climb we leapt with the waves about the shelf of rock at the abrupt end of the beach’s seen move of land. This way! In brilliant dark words enough to guide me over the boulder-broken point, birds have buried their heads under wings, there’s silence but for the metics of my pulse working with the furling surf. This way! And we clamber the quiet wall. Above, we talk above ourselves of the via lacta, milk of star-spattered sky bright enough to read our thoughts by: Orion to the north with other friends, the Cross to the south is ours, and below from the distance that binds this moment with light and drinking of whisky the sober talk is drunk with the breeze, the ocean, and the night.