Possibilities of Love

by Ed Kleinschmidt

We are left open and wet like shells young
girls string on strips of kelp and wear
around their necks and wrists and ankles into

the sea. In the washed-over sand, we
have to imagine our names were there, in
silver, your name like a rabbit, like

your feet, that turn away from me after
dark nights soften our bodies, turn
them into deep pools of water, fresh water

cupped in our hands on these hot beaches,
the sun which hardens us, our hair
like field straw, but it is our soft grass,

we nest in it and each other. And our hands
keep building, like a stonemason sleeping: his
buildings he has never been in want his hands

again. It is you I want again, left open.
Now somewhere else, out of reach of my brown feet,
my shell that has escaped into love, my name.

And you are here, now with pearls in your
hair, and I want to dive to find you
and carry your pearls up to air between

my lips. And to hear you breathe in
as if you were breathing for the world
and will never stop. I sleep on a dune

as if an animal waiting to carry me down
these beaches to you. And I cannot think of
a letter that is not in your name. And I cannot

think of your arms without my own wet and
stretching out. And I cannot dream of your eyes,
without them, right now, looking closely into mine.