White hands stranded in the blue
counterpane; bleached driftwood,
washing toward the straight
shoreline. I try not to think
of coral and Prospero’s bones.

I try to remember the redwood
boat and sailcloth, the wind
of the cast-iron anchor mooring
us off together in a fast sleep,
sinking into the silt of dreams.

I try to forget that somewhere
on the waking beach a lone
grey presence stands, waiting;
ready to tear us apart
with time’s carnassial teeth.