The sea is brutal
all rolling waves and
twisting undertow.
The locals talk in
Pirate’s tongues
soft Cornish brogue
I strain to understand.
The sea is cruel today,
and I’m afraid of disintegrating
into specks of white spittle.
There’s nothing to say
as clouds roll in;
another three hours of heat
before the cicadas beat
their stick like legs to crescendo.
I’m hanging on the bar of
yesterday, the future a blur
outside this air conditioned bubble
where the dark can’t enter
our breathe runs in unison with Heaven.

We talk of love in three languages,
none of them translatable..