Our room, nautical.
How I imagine it, our beginning,
at all the perfect angles,

90 degrees onwards from the first
shadow autumn-sad, together
stepping the threshold of water,

180 degrees towards the depth,
past the latitude of the body
capricorn diving, sheltered by
the silence of our senses,

360 degrees, hands on hip finding
the radian to lie safe on the
pale seabed, within the sleeping
clam-shell as an echo of a dream,

the dream moving the sharp
pins of our hands, fiercely
knitting the lost meridian of bodies,
the syncopating steel finally
breaking from under the floorboards
with pressing waves surging in
to sinking us, free to all unnamed directions,

finally surfacing, the shell on the brim
opening with a pearl of white,
flesh and bone on a moon-red pillow ...