Dutch Apple

It could be in a pool, or rather
the turtle grass in the bay
raising a sufficient ridge
along which my finger rests,
thinking it as string and quietly
satisfied in the rumor that my hand has brought me.

And then your message, no letter
but a drowning: my skin sets off the goal
of your fist, and there are parts of me
that pine for things much further down
where your breath could never reach, even
if bent on the descending; you watch

the reflection red. We have this new thing
from the watering, in which I rest, though
moldering within your core and slipping
from your white skin; which, if available for the first
and second, will be the third and fourth thing
we've leased since meeting.