A Wave

I

If the light were always like this,
your face would never lose
that quality a face has
when it is illuminated,

but the sun is setting,
and your body lies in darkness
next to mine,

the angled ground
beneath us settling.

II

I need more
than the sound of
your cycling breath,

but I have never known how to ask for it,

and I fear you will become for me like
this creaking tree above us:

an outline cast by the passage of time,
unfurled through some curious longing,

a shadow more important
than the flesh
anchored in the dirt
or above it.

III

I close my eyes
and a wave appears,
solid, translucent,
pushing itself toward land,

and when it impacts,

my body shakes, my eyes twitch,
and I move my hand along
the wet grass toward you.