Caribbean Sand


You're at the drawing table, drowning in sound
thick as honey, but not as sweet
dark words and rhythms leak through windows
saturate walls, stick to my shoes...
and in my head.
I swim beyond the music, to the couch on the shore
and I watch...
Strong hands, hot to the touch
skilled at lines and designs, shading and shaping,
until the secrets are revealed.
Intent on their work, charchoal dust settles into
wrinkles and folds, fingerprints on paper, on hearts
Hot to the touch.
Like Caribbean Sand
Thirsting for the sea...
So what is it that moves you, really?
You whisper...
The tide changes.