for Amber Beilharz
We wrestle bone-shapes from sand

too quick to crumble. The landscape heaves

and trembles at your touch. Air bruising from the

wet brush of our words. 
I pry molluscs from shallow rock pools

and you liberate them

from their calcium-bodies with the lip of your knife.

Their soft underskin reminds me of kidneys:

innocent and eel-ugly. 
Your red bucket with its chipped paint

becomes almost too heavy to hold.

The sun folds itself behind the sea and we make

our way home like old philosophers driving in the dark.