Time again for re-telling, there’s nothing new to sayand that too feels fine, the melted blanket comfort,
the same tangy taste of faint peppermint words
the great affirmation of an everyday cliché.
And I have loved you so, that I have given away
every puff of breath, and each spike and spurt
of billowing delight, likewise the cracked hurt
till the heart is zilch, and zilch is halfway
to some infinity, unseen and unheard,
to some stone-etched heaven dancing inert;
a temple by an ocean trapped into being a bay
and everything is itself yet fluidly converts,
wriggles into a symbol, into a fully figured
thing of flesh and blood, yet too of foam and spray.