God is here and you are not. Who am I to love?
Hulls are breaking the surface of the water, but the sea remains.
Waves roll and rear into the sky and groan with weight
and call upon the land with white hands,
but the sea and the land are green and breathing and immutable.
You have taken my clothes, have left me cold and undone
with all the ends of my seams hanging over the edge of the past, unraveling.
God has given me his blood, the light of the Sun, and my spirit
to outlast what you have touched.
What am I to say for you?
I am lying in the low, soft pastures of the high valleys of the old sea,
and the night is warming, and I am at the breast of my Lover.
You are running hard somewhere,
exhausting yourself in a spirit of cunning
and victorious malice,
to leave me.
Leave me, then. I am Here.