On shifting shores, the mermen writhe
sluggish, drugged from hand-held-high
blind pewtered cups where oceans spill
to the salt-wet sand, and swither, swill
the love-drunk sky’s caressing rains,
(cold ecstasy in spittle comes)
come permeate the mermen’s wetskin
cored by the howl of the downpour’s drum.
Undinal dirges swathe the air,
the airs come swirling from the deep:
Möbius tunes freed by the spume
wind endlessly, bring wind borne sleep.
As Morpheus lulls the sleeping sands,
the mermen slip to night and slither
back to sea, to dream, to live and
size the stars through shimmering silver.