slinklove, you pile your hands upwards towards my skin – a bottle-nosed dolphin and something mammalian and curved – like the willow of a spine, the petercottontail of a clavicle. bones, rapturous, rattling against one another – flesh: hollow, formed, willing, perpetual. windowpane of your eyes/ they keep approaching, following, leveling. is it your shape or your circumstance i find myself in? is it this bed or this hurricane i keep myself bonded to? is it proximity? this thing – desire – is it close to me? or closeness to the sea (which heralds me back, and in heralding, bonds me – keeps me never approaching anything other than the brine of the sea)

is it intimacy, or the sea calling me back? is it ever approaching? your skin/the nape of your circumstance/my hunger/lust, or something language approaches; like teeth

is it skin; a shell; a sea/
or the shore, lapping back?

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