Ἀμφιτρίτη, Even So Late

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Amphitrite, given a third consideration, even so late, catches love's cinder
For a few minutes, until it gains body, and is beaten back in the waves.

The blood brine, combining on her tongue, begins to stick. The salacious cloth,

This is a raw sail, hung out to the wind, before her. She's surfacing on liquid feet

For a few minutes, until she is again a body, beaten back in the waves.
Varied colors and textures of flesh spark an interest, though that was simple enough--
Equipped as a raw sail, hung out to the wind, before her surfacing on liquid feet
She is stuck in a moment of kindness, not least of which the binding effects of kelp

Varied colors, textures provide her spark, though she is simply immaculate enough
To distort their exact proportions, to make up the necessary weight--of water
Winding to snugly fit all the ingredients, creeping stolons anchor tubes, flat sheets of kelp.
Our blue surmise of a story, swallowed up. Her swimmer's shoulders, whittled waist

Distorting her exact proportions, the necessary weight, as though borne on water,
On the breach of the Miocene, she becomes a dolphin, and unable to clasp knife nor net,
Free herself from the story that swallows her up, as it pushes into the past, the wastes
Within a fish with a womb, whose wrinkles of a braincase you have traced in dried silt.

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On the breach of the Miocene, she becomes a dolphin, unable to clasp knife nor net,
Breaking her melon, not least a blanched heart, and swimming into the aftertaste,
Afterbirth of a fish with a womb, whose wrinkles afterwards live on as tracings in siltShe knows what's happening, or the blackish versions of it, once a principle is held inside.
Slicing thinly and evenly, she finds you, hook and line. You've set out for the leviathan,
Keeping your ear lowered to the water, depending on who is asking, for an echo or aftertaste
Of those edible excuses. (You handed them out to the very young and restless, left reeling inside)
Surely it helps to explain your choice of bait, wielding a clean-cutting blade on slippery decks.

Your ear lowered to the water with peaks like whipped cream--here, an echo, an aftertaste
Of the ferment of your dreams. In the making, an elusive citrus note drawn out, your mouthThis message bottle, this beach, and bottlenosed dolphin leaping onto your slippery deck
And there may be yet, tender to a turn, a wakefulness from which you will never recover.
Yes, the ferment of your dreams, an emphasis on the inaccessible, quenches a mouth
For a few minutes, until it gains body, and is beaten back in the mounting waves.
And there may be yet a tenderness to offer her, a tether, a time-drawn chariot recovered
From a blood brine combing the tongue--tack the salacious sailcloth to find her.