To what edge of reason do we gather here each dusk,
thoughts rising then spilling beneath our feet?

Towards what empty sea do our frantic eyes fly,
wide with desire for horizons of silence?

Into what hiss of surge do our parched hearts wade,
seeking the quench that sings in our breath?

Against what crunch of words do our cool toes reach,
believing the sting of sea beneath our feet?

To what are we drawn here, so far from the lounge,
til the warm mothering of darkness gathers us back?

Swirling in blackness,
our slithering selves
pulsing in crevices,
are breathing
sea