Tied, Tide.

for Peter of New Zealand who has these 7 years been my light

upon the black shore,

‘neath that centuried tree,

you carried me,

you poured the waters,

as in some ritual rite,

directly on my flesh,

exactly on the wound,

and bid me to the sea,

to cast my weight aside:

throw that arrow to the tide,

and ever after... when I looked,

into your stormy eyes,

I saw that moment in a gaze,

where as ocean they met me,

pulling as a current,

that nightly with the moon,

will come and go,

those depths you naturally abide,

an aqueous admission,

to a realm of shaded sea,

leagues where stars dare not reflect,

though I connect in wistful wonder,

thinking surely,

surely,

sorely as I would,

the only way I could abide,

a landlocked fate,

a shoreless night,

is if those pewter pools could,

is if those circlets: circled rime,

would remain for all that time,

within my scope to meet,

with welling, ripples sweet,

for I know,

(in the utmost cellar of my soul),

e'en if we met beyond,

this sad and mortal setting sun,

where we'd cry,

"till again we have,

our faces",

even in the darkest places,

I would know that silvered stare.