travel the self same road to the journey’s end
where sea scuffs the rough from salted skin
and the fishermen ply their nightly trade
fireflies burning the horizon.
with the two of us pirouetting
gracefully cloning our separate points
within the evolving circle.
Try one more time
these long forgotten gifts
immaculately coating our separateness:
and choice is a carnival of illusion
to hold or not to hold;
to plunge or linger on the edges of your unlapped shore
where the fishermen trawl their fished out seas
as we float in the ocean of what this might be:
if I could only turn again.