Counting On i.m. r.c.

Counting On

i.m. r.c.

The beach feels hot under our feet

turning us inside and out.

To be with you is to be without you:
you stay the same, always different.

Filling with sand, wipe-outs,
prolific shoots, location shots,

I had thought to sleep meant to dream,
to wake to take everything for the worse.

Outside the mechanics, outside the grind,
the venture in wanting long life.

For now you touch, are touched —
prove everything exists by measures

taken in or out the sea —
and the long sweep wavering

suddenly seems half the stretch
we are keeping to ourselves.

Come further inshore.  Ensure —
gesture and delay.