By The Aegean Sea With Cecania


I wonder if the sea can hear
all the racket that it makes?
Like scorpion stings on the sand dispersed

and each grain curled up in pain.
The beach foaming at the mouth,
sand dunes on horseback prepared to attack.

The lips of your thighs
saying something I can not hear
impaled as they are by the surf.

It would not surprise me
if a leviathan sprang out of the waves
and swallowed us,

spit us out covered in seaweed,
slamming us against a lighthouse wall,
stunned, sliding to the base.

The lighthouse keeper hurries in concern
and warns us (kind of late, don’t you think?)
about the dangers of the undertow.