Cliffs laugh politely at the moon;
She tells stupid jokes.
Sea foam blisters like
the retching of burst yolk,
heaving and swollen.

These ribs of Oceans, old and cracking,
breathe happily with difficulty.

Inhale when She's far away,
skirts pulling on your eyes,
a small slip of sharpened cream thigh.
Exhale when She's looking straight
into you, beneath'n between you,
and then try to decide.

Rotate,
that way I can
see
in all directions;
and shift, but
She'll always move me
whatever I choose.