I long to grasp
a rising crest in repose,
halt the surge of a unique wave,
swirl flavors of an eyelid sun,
seconds before it soars
the umbrella sky.
~
Sweet tangerine bleeds
on surrender's cusp,
prior to west wind breaths
shifting hues to beryl.
I lie under grips
of golden threads—
flesh tone of liable bare.
~
Will they burn my clustered hope
into sand grains before slumber;
will I be savored
like morning's muse
of coral bliss
in its wake over the sea?