More rich foam: its first meal
still warm and the child just born
reaches across the wake
for its sweet mountain stream
sinking a few feet from its lips
as a chain still lets the first link
hold on for all: each wave too heavy
floating away on the soft sea floor

--from this sand the sea
is fed, crawls off to dry
though it still licks its young
still saying goodbye
dragging its waterfalls

and lullaby and the child just born
blinks but it's too late
--that first kiss

and each day since
empties our eyes: the sea
stacking one tear over another
walls-in the sun that can't leave
that nourishes the withered night
just by reaching over
the way you still kiss, returned and open.