Under the brightest sun
waist deep in salty water,
we're waiting for just the right
ride to shore.
He says something about mountains
as we buoy up with a rolling wave.
The voice comes from one unexpected
but I know him.
He repeats,
"The mountain concerns itself not
on pulverized stone."
These are not his words.
Someone has told him this.
Just then I was swept up and under foam
dazed in briny whys and hows
this familiar stranger swam onto my beach,
of all weak willed philosophers to summon.
My best teachers have been lovers first
be it in dreams
or on other stars--
I kicked empty as the ocean
embraced me toward the horizon,
and as love goes,
his back was already drying on the shore.
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