Spit

the waves are golden
washing
our outline like brasso polish

we laugh and try out best to throw
water with our palms
slapping loudly

its so cold this spring fed bay
our flesh is all goosebump
and excitement

nipples hardened
feet cramping digging in the
soft sand

the point of sand reachs out
where the waves have piled
it
there are driftwood bones
waiting for a funerary pyre
where eager dancers will
circle it with arms waving
there the sparks will
jump to the stars

and summer jackets smelling
of camphor and old wool
will gather on suntanned
shoulders glowing with
the heat of the day

the wind will die down
and the ghost moon will
float free of the forest
curtian

the river of pale
stretching to the far shore
dark and haunted

I can feel your arms
on me  the fine hairs
against my chest
I can count the minutes
and the embers
rage defiant
crackling their song