A place far from
what we
know
what are the
sounds, the CREE-URR!
of the seagulls
beneath the
clamor of voices,
laughter, scrape
of chairs
rustle of brittle
leaves of
the potted olive
trees
the blood stirs
the heart lifts
the farther north
we go
the closer the
touch
until under the
clothes
the hair tingles
on
flesh from breastbone
to groin
not the full
sink,
the descent from
the cliffs,
the seagull
CREE-URR!
or the wafts of
ocean mist
Behold a taste.
Salt on my parted lips.
