More tease than strip, the surf slips back
and though the show runs twice a day
we’re fascinated by the slow
disrobing. Shallows webbed with gold
ripple, then draw back to expose
crinkles tender as the lines a bedsheet
etches on skin. Our hands itch
for all they might gather, periwinkles clustered
on wet underledges, the rich nether tangle
of rockweed and knotted wrack.
What’s left veiled undulates somewhere,
barracuda, moray, hammerhead,
caressed by the same waves that lap our ankles.
At nightfall, the tide unfurls,
black and glistening, tipped with moon,
to gather all its secrets up in silk.