She leans into me,
shoulder blade kisses
eyes and body speaking. quietly
awake. listening to the shoreline
come. and go. As
waves caress the beaches
It is a dream. We dreamers made it.
Wrapped ourselves inside palm branches,
in the mist of the December currents.
Gave the meteors their ambition. Their trails
give my heart wander. lust.
Beyond these dunes, an amber moonrise
is waxing a path to our affections.
And.
The beaches are dreaming.
Of us.
We. became lucid silhouettes.
abandoning our gentleness,
behind canvas walls
loosing ourselves among each others' shadows.
hands tethered, she writes circle poems
comes. back to me.
feather tra(n)ce.
Sea shell pottery.
Shaping the night with our clay hands,
lips. breath. sculpture. Installation art.ists.
And
The beaches are dreaming.
Of us.
Andrew Tipton
