Your first pictures are black-and-white
like a sunset negative on a film strip,
or a beach in a ‘50s noir. But there are no lovers
running from the waves, falling
on the gravity of each other’s mouths,
nor sands stretching From Here to Eternity.
There are only the shore sounds of a water world,
panicked drumbeats of a primitive heart.
Are you that? The amphibious stone form
trailing on the hem of a wave?
The nutshell slinking in and out of sight
like Armstrong between the buzz and the static?
You are a cut off the moon landing
and I am space, a waxing weightlessness,
a shedding of hair, skin, and bone,
a certainty of flight.