Crossing

by J. Adam Collins

There is the ocean.
There is the slowing
sway of last night’s
eddy in the rocks.
I want to sit with you
on the silt, the sifting
rinse of salty foam
on our feet. How far
we’ve come. Too quickly
we wash out to the current,
drifting toward another
shore and the sound of us
crashing again and again.
This constant forsaking
of sky and sand. You are
saturated. You are
steady as the morning’s
ferry churning in the cove.
I’d follow you from land 
to land—a gull chasing
madly in the sun.