joyfulness.

on windswept hair,
on seawind breezes;
not much manufactured.

the space can resuscitate the dead –
pull out from crags like so many crabs
from shells,
the poison,
slick-washed out to sea.

we lay bare like the first days
of every man amphibian;
use our undulating hands,
our human octopus arms,
to find the waters of each other.

gone with the crimson tide,
gone with red algae blooms;
toxicity stays at bay,
huddled back,
so distracted,
lost-swept behind full crests.

we are at present
without words –
watching pink suns
matching pink tides
matching pink skies
— for a moment.

Ω