All evening the eelgrass slaps
its rough embroidery down
at the wrack-line, at damp sockets,
the moon-snails’ methodical beds.
She loses count.
pouring from the sea-maw, the waves
like pitch pines. Tattered banners.
Lamberton frets her hand,
offers his mackinaw.
Though she’s blue-lipped,
she declines, moves into the spray.
He hears her laugh, then only
the gabble of the waves.