ACRASTIC

May the crease and cross of sea

That wraps our morning bed in sound,

The overlapping wrists and knee

That our tumbled dreams have wound,

And the summer’s slow and even beat

Across the ripple of the ground

 

Bleach our sleeping limbs in spray

Like the breakers’ linen white,

Comb our labyrinthine way

Through the cycles of the night,

Dry us steadily as waves

In the winter’s clorox light:

 

In the coming season’s mess,

Tide us over in the sun

Rising through the average mist

On the ocean’s rinse and spin,

So our dirty hearts insist

We wash our laundry here again.