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She laughs with the tips of her fingers-

Wonders why she is the soft abdomen of your

Second-hand seashell. Arms fold in sand, her hair (is your hair)

In pedestrian moonlight- folding in yesterday between

Strands of brown and black.

It is mutualism, when she

Leaves you, shell intact:

Below your heart is space you keep for her.

But alone,

You are without moistened gills,

Without the weight you carry to keep her (keep you)�alive.

Born by the shore, she never moved inland;

You are too young,

(you will drown.)
�

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