A field, a sea-flower, three stones, a stile.
Not one thing close to another
throughout the air. The cliff’s uplifted lawns.
You and I walk light as wicker in virtual contact.

Prepositions lie exposed. All along
the swimmer is deeper than the water.
I have looked under the wave,
I saw your body floating on the darkness.

Oh time and water cannot touch.
Not touch. Only a blob far out,
your singularity and the sea’s
inalienable currents flow at angles…

and if I love you this is incidental
as on the sand one blue towel, one white towel.