mah maou

The tides will sing us akin to the oyster

on mornings touched with dew

of rolling, undulant margins redolent of sweat-anointed napes

o como sal a la lengua del enamorado.

The tides will sing us akin to the oyster,

ere being consumed with lemon

in sacrament,

unity-fitted as natives,

the saline taste of Aphrodite still wet upon our lips.

The currents will sow within

a single grain of sand,

a rubbing of elbows, a disturbance, a seed,

to grow, lie secret, intramural,

to blossom in amaranthine splendor

and beget pearl progeny,

held eternal in our ciphered script.