All evening the eelgrass slaps
its rough embroidery down

at the wrack-line, at damp sockets,
the moon-snails’ methodical beds.
She loses count.
                                   Sleek grasses
pouring from the sea-maw, the waves
like pitch pines. Tattered banners.
Slovenly tongues.
                          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.


William Kelley Woolfitt



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