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we are where:

            slick-nostriled lovers with green-glass hands – how you
used to haunt those
windowpanes, down by the
seaside, then waves going

crash, crash, crash

(they would go)
                             but we
                             will settle
                             eventually

and for now, your hands
                                        ; my thighs,
                              comet-tinged and solstice-twisted –

this is how we dance, here where
in this motley room
with no ceiling and no stars, eyes
parched

earth-like, we
revolve

and revolve
and revolve
[e_volve]

and driftwood, i whispered
once; we are just waste

            what that ocean left behind
            in its grandiosely surging wake

because it didn't want us

anymore