I know the passage of my Beloved
by the widening vee of ripples
in the apparent surface of things; the ones that
wrinkle the reflections out of shape
but don’t touch the shadows (shadows have depth);
the ones that splash against the rip-rap walls
of solid consciousness with meaningful whispers.

On the distant ocean the tide is rising. River,
waked by an unseen boat, you backflow
ever so slightly in response to the moon. And I
walking safely above the high-water mark
find my feet wet to the ankles.

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