At my bank you stand, one toe dipping in,
examining the surface without regard to
who shares this beach, this harbour, this
respite from the daily grind of noise,
dirt, and smother.
You drop your bag, the hat falls, and
pieces of clothing slide over your head
revealing armpits that close again to
let your abandon enter my darkness,
submerging quickly, effortlessly,
leaving the old world behind.
The first cold is a threshold to seclusion
and obscurity, but peace inspiring your lungs
propels you forward, washing, cleansing,
stripping away the stress of thought harnessed
by eight days.
You swim molded to my body, moving around me,
below me, above me, within me, tickling me,
suspended in the weight of this form, my
substance, current and tide, held by your
faith in me, our times together carried
by your trust.
Under the surface you are safe and when
this time ends, you are free to go again,
to come again, to emerge dripping, and
sit at my side.
by Rojan Zét