Penned in the Margins

We shimmer in the night’s impulse

too quick for any tight embrace, all slippy through the waterlace,

and all the mud-life springing, in all the love of being

In the new sand, in the new tide, in the blossom

of a new stride, ragworms start to shimmy.

In the moon tide, in the moon dune, in the blossom

of a new moon, ragworms flexy shiver.

But every time they take you back: the roots,

the wolves, the leaves; as if they know they moonless go

who go without your sheen.