self of the sea

it is ..

a quiet distant peddle,

 

the seven of the sun on a numbering moon

the uproot of what grows into the sky

 

your question's lips,

its taint of shade on a glass

 

that sitting beside,

brushed shoulders,

of stone, the skin's sound \

.. you may still see their tingling toes, as you are washed over its shore

a space of together, touching as only bigger, and a self of the sea

that has hands, as you would see

copyright 2018 ⓒ / forrest gallagher