analyticstracking
Poetry

Oyster Bed

There was that one afternoon
in the boathouse: that one
deserted day
along Hood Canal.
Your lips moved over me like a moon,
and around us
rain tangled in blue shadows.
Sent for oysters, we found some
but took our time
delivering.
Bodies canal-cold from the swim
we roughened ourselves
on stacks of beach towels
knocked over.
Shadows lengthened like long
muscles
as we peels off our husks
and our insides flowed.