From the Foam

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In the unholy terror of this distance
(how cruel the gods!) – yet still I can
reach your trembling body,
your sweat libating the sheets,
your limbs straining against the leather straps –
and the muffled noise of your distress
floats past my ears like a sad, half-heard
wail. In the distance, the pounding
of the ocean, fists against a pillowed surface,
your entire being encompassed
in the echo of the conch

that I clasp to my ear,
that I caress like a lover's body.
The sea always echoes in a rush of blood.
I can almost touch you,
past these waves. I would be dead
not to hear the rushing of the sea.

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