they were blue and red turned peach
but could somehow pretend to intuitive exactitude,
or simply both know they had to be flushed
scuttling grey crab on curls of cooled
and formative lava, through pores that opened up
(certain in their empty channeling of tide)
and allowed something both growing and receding
to wash them out, to cover them in salty time
frigid and sticky, limping to high ground
together and waking in the morning
with the curious faces of gnarled fisherman
beaten and baiting metallic hooks
while glancing down at their damp layers
like some impervious suns drying them
all up

and this is where I wish to keep all motions
and actions, like believing in love
(in their love--something madhattered & vista blinding--
in ours--la sagrada familia de amistad),
scuttling like grey crab on the basins
of seaweed fluxuation, in the corals
of all our seperate bodies connected

may no movement away deny some movement back
may i know
no movement back denies a movement away
and back
may we all believe & feel
in the drying sun, joy on top of a washedover rock