the Swell

go slow into the swell: these slipways of love
are rolling in, whitecaps, and the ground swells;
brick walls brickle, metal shields melt, and we
hold firm until the stream is a bending, a ream
bracing us whole. The jukebox
in the corner of the inn outside town
churns the blisters and webs melton robes
liquors I jive, lines you peg.
We tap sunlit yarns and tango what needs saying
on the black oak floor. Dinnertime;
bitters clammed, beef hushed, wine manifesto.
Waxing and neaping, she slips us dewy nooks
and tucks our lips under the flowery quilt.
There, nails fail and skins are silken
the gravel on the driveway as far as to the front door
is peppered with daisies and butterflies.
Turn slow into the swell: these slipways of love
are rolling in, whitecaps, and the lake swells

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Written by Anita Alig

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