Rippled sand presses underneath our bodies
where we make our own impressions,
leave our own transient marks.
The tumultuous forms of hands, buttocks,
elbows, back, knees, breasts are as ephemeral
as the great sand castles of childhood,
as the cryptic scrawlings of names
as the footprints of lovers
Foam of the ocean sprays with each break
and the waves reach up to meet us,
jealous of our shared caress. The moon
keeps us company, and promises not to
share our secrets and embarrassments.
This story will be gone with the coming tide,
our impressions washed away and the sands cleansed.
3/22/10
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