she likes it when he pulls her to him

red bougainvillea blooming against the glass—

she likes it when he pulls her to him—

once you saw murres crowding the cliffs of an arctic island— 

thousands of blue-black mussels, exposed and gripping rocks at low tide—

he runs his fingers between her toes— 

light reflecting off snow dazzles their eyes— 

a tiger shark prowls along the shoreline for turtles— 

an aspen leaf drops into a creek— 

when he tugs the roots of her hair, he begins to tiger— 

this is the writing, the speaking of the dream— 

no one knows why ten thousands of murres are dying— 

he hungers for sunlight to slant along their bodies on a Moloka'i slope— 

sunlight streams as gold-flecked koi roil the waters and churn— 

they roil the waters and churn— 

killer whales move through Prince William Sound— 

 

[Arthur Sze {1950- } "7. This is the Writing, the Speaking of the Dream" from 'Sprang', in Sight Lines]